


And Light Remaining After Thunder

by firesign10



Series: Light Remaining verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Homicide (not Sam or Dean), M/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is happy creating specialty baked goods for his coffee shop, Hallowed Grounds. That is, until his brother Sam calls unexpectedly from California. His return after three years away at Stanford triggers a sequence of events that will catch the Winchesters up in painful memories and present suspense as Sam is targeted by a danger from their past, all while they try to sort out just exactly what they mean to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And Light Remaining after Thunder (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 [](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/profile)[spn_j2_bigbang](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/). Enormous thanks and gratitude to [](http://wendy.livejournal.com/profile)[wendy](http://wendy.livejournal.com/), our fabulous moderator!!! Thanks for your time, your work, your initiative in keeping this challenge going!!! You are a jewel!!
> 
> Thanks to my artist, [digitalwave](digitalwave.livejournal.com), for creating lovely art and for being so great to work with! Check our her Art Post [on LJ](http://digitalwave.livejournal.com/659411.html) | [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4099383%C2%A0)

Mary unlocked the glass front door and turned on the fuchsia fluorescent lights that spelled out "Mary's Coffee Shop" across the big front window. Beneath that, smaller words read "Coffee Fit for an Angel!" in flowing lavender letters. She walked to the back of the shop and clicked on the big urns, already prepped from the day before, that lined the back wall, smiling as they began to gurgle. She took a deep breath, breathing in the rich, heady scent of the hot liquid starting to brew.

Looking around the shop, she felt the same satisfaction that her world always gave her. The linoleum floor, checkerboarded in light gray and charcoal squares, provided a soft foundation for the bright furnishings. Small tables, topped in salmon-colored formica with fuchsia and turquoise chairs, were scattered around randomly. Half a dozen booths ran down the two side walls, furnished in the same color scheme. Three or four tables and chairs were placed at the front window for advantageous people-watching as coffee and a fresh-baked treat were enjoyed.

At the back, a pastry case comprised half of a long counter; a shoulder-high glass case containing shelves that held long baskets filled with muffins, bagels, and coffeecake. The rest of the counter was waist high and held small bins with all the necessities for fixing coffee--napkins, stirrers, sugar, sugar substitutes, milk and cream carafes--as well as the cash register. The coffee and espresso machines adorned the back wall, their shiny metal as attractive to the eye as their contents were pleasing to the palate.

Mary Winchester presided over this domain, _her_ domain. She knew all of her regulars, greeting them by name and handing their favorite beverage over. Anyone new, she made feel as welcome as a regular. She came out from behind the counter often, visiting tables to chat and ask how people were enjoying their coffee. Her staff was devoted to her, happy to be working under such a sweet employer. It showed in their own pleasant demeanors, and the atmosphere of the shop in general was one of relaxation and delight.

John Winchester stood behind the register, watching his wife circulate around the floor. His heart was filled with love; to him, she really was an angel. The day she'd said "I do," standing next to him in a little garden with the sun streaming down on her blonde hair and sweet smile, had been the happiest in his life, seconded only by the day their son, Dean, had been born. A voice chirping at his knee brought his attention down, and there was Dean now, with the same blond hair Mary had and the faintly cleft chin from John, tugging at his jeans and smiling his radiant little smile.

"Can I go with Mommy? I wanna say hi too!" he said eagerly, and John nodded his assent. The boy had spent his toddler years in the shop, and all of the regulars knew him. John didn't even have to lift the counter panel to let him out--Dean was short enough still to scoot out from underneath it. He ran to join his mother.

Mary turned to greet him with a hug, smiling at John as she stood back up. Her hand went naturally to her belly, resting on the swelling beneath her pale blue maternity top, and John felt like his heart would burst. Their second child was growing in there, and he was fascinated at seeing her blossom like this again. Fascinated and horny; he couldn't wait to take her upstairs and strip her clothes off, kiss her plump breasts, caress her swollen, dark nipples, rub her big belly as he--

 _Shit._ He had to stop thinking like this while he was working, because he really didn't want to greet the Wednesday ladies' bridge club with a raging boner. He hoped the counter would help hide it, but feared it did not. He wished he hadn't been so stubborn about not wearing an apron, just because he thought it was unmanly.

Although the elderly Mrs. Case didn't seem to mind his discomfort, scoping him out as she approached the cash register. Her sharp eyes dropped to his crotch, widened noticeably, and flicked back up to his face. A sly smile crept across her wrinkled face, and her tongue slid out to moisten her coral-stained lips. "Well, Mr. Winchester, I'm glad to see you in such...tiptop shape." She handed her money over, leaning a little too close, her fingers lingering a few seconds too long in his hand. Her light gray hair was shot with shiny white strands, and her perfume reminded him of his grandmother's. "I do enjoy seeing such a strapping man feeling his oats. Mr. Case was much the same, back in his day." She dropped a downright dirty wink at him, turning and--was she _sashaying_ out of the shop?

He shook his head, thinking he wanted to take a shower now. Well, at least his boner had subsided.

Mary finished her circuit of the coffee shop's floor, holding Dean's hand. His little paw felt a little sticky, and she knew he'd gotten into the honey or frosting. He loved to "bake" little pies and cakes on his own. She would have gotten him an Easy Bake Oven for Christmas, but John felt it would "compromise the boy's masculinity". She tried to argue that many great chefs were men, but he steadfastly refused. So instead, she let Dean play at the shop, and the boy was happy.

 _Ooof._ She had to stop for a second, pressing a hand to her belly. If she'd thought Dean was strong, this baby was even stronger, and a real kicker too. "He's going to be great at soccer!" she'd said to Dean, watching how his face lit up. He already loved the baby; any fears she'd had about sibling rivalry had been long put to rest. He loved to talk about how his baby brother was on the way, and promised that he'd be the best big brother ever. Dean had confided to Mary that he wanted to teach the baby everything Dean knew, like how to bake pies, and that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were so much better when the crusts were cut off.

Mary knew she was blessed.

Dean looked out the upstairs front window for the umpteenth time. "When are Daddy and Mommy bringing Sam home? I wanna see him!" He pouted, which Ellen Harvelle thought just made him look even more adorable, his plump lips pushed out in pique. Ellen lived in the next block, and babysat for the Winchesters frequently. She was happy to help out when her husband was on his long truck driving runs, grateful for the company. She'd stayed the last two days with Dean while John and Mary were at the hospital.

And now baby Sam was coming home, and Dean was bouncing around in excitement.

The door opened, and John ushered Mary in. A bundle of blue blankets lay in her arms, and Dean ran over to her. "Is that him? Can I see?" he asked impatiently.

"Yes, sweetheart, but you have to be gentle, he's very small and delicate. Just a finger first--feel how soft his skin is." She peeled back a corner of blanket, and Dean froze.

"He's so tiny..." he breathed.

"Yes, he is, but he won't stay that way. You used to be this small too, and now look how big you are! See his hair--it's so dark, like Daddy's, not blond like you and me. Do you like him?" She smiled at her elder son. The love between them was palpable to Ellen, and tears sprang to her eyes. Maybe it was time she talked to Bill about a baby...a sweet little girl with blonde ringlets would be such a joy.

"I don't like him," said Dean, his eyes fixed on his baby brother. Ellen saw Mary and John exchange concerned glances. Dean looked up at his parents. "I love him. I'm going to show him everything and protect him from scary things. He's my baby brother forever!"

John laughed, a deep, happy sound that echoed in the apartment. Mary smiled brilliantly at her children, watching Dean run a gentle finger down Sam's soft baby cheek.

Ellen never forgot that beautiful, happy picture of the Winchester family. In the future, it became one of those special moments to pull out when things were dark and grim; especially as the happiness and sunlight lasted so briefly after that day.


	2. And Light Remaining after Thunder

Dean cursed as he dove for the oven door. His chocolate chip banana muffins were done, and he wasn't going to burn a muffin batch just because some unknown number buzzed his cell. They could eat voicemail while he pulled the tray out and tipped the muffins onto a cooling rack.

Satisfied that he'd gotten to them in time, Dean turned his attention to the raspberry white chocolate crumble that was awaiting its turn in the oven. Two big pans of it just needed a sprinkle of tiny dark chocolate chips, and in they went, the pans sliding into the oven's dark, hot maw. Dean let the door slam shut, wiping his moist forehead with a batter-splattered towel. He set the timer, checked that the muffins were cooling nicely, and went to sit on a stool by the back door with a bottle of water, pulling his phone back out to check the voicemail. Maybe it was a new vendor, or a catering order.

"Dean?"

Dean punched the pause button. It couldn't be. He must have misheard--that voice couldn't be on his phone. Saying his name. Asking for him.

Couldn't be.

He took a big gulp of water, letting the liquid flow down his throat before he pressed the pause button again.

"It's Sam."

Dean shut the phone off, putting it in his shirt pocket. He started to walk to the front of the shop, but turned on his heel and came back, opening the dairy refrigerator. He took the phone back out and put it on the shelf next to the tubs of cream cheese and boxes of butter and shut the refrigerator again.

He didn't even want to see that phone right now. Not until he decided if he wanted to listen to that voicemail or not.

Dean strode out of the back kitchen up to the register counter out front. He quickly surveyed the coffee shop, checking out how busy they were and what his co-workers were doing. Well, technically they were his employees, but he preferred thinking of them as co-workers. Jo Harvelle was ringing up Lisa, the willowy brunette who ran the yoga place across the street. Lisa was already biting into her low-fat raisin bran muffin, but he saw a couple pieces of dark chocolate fudge on her plate as well, making him smile. She lived what she taught, a clean and simple lifestyle, but she enjoyed some of life's richer pleasures too. At one point she and Dean had enjoyed each other a few times. Despite the attraction of her lithe frame, dark shiny hair, sweet smile, and extreme flexibility, Dean knew he couldn't offer anything permanent to her, so he'd backed away. He was good for some horizontal fun, but he didn't plan on ever having strings attached, and he didn't want to disappoint anyone who was looking for that white picket fence. He made apple pies, he didn't promise any.

Andy had a spray bottle and a cloth, busily cleaning the pastry display case. It inevitably got smeared with fingerprints during the day, as eager, hungry customers plastered themselves to the glass, trying to choose what baked goodie they would buy that day. Today's offerings included honey corn, raisin bran, and blueberry muffins as well as more esoteric ones like lime cilantro, apple pear, and chocolate peanut butter. There were five kinds of cookies, three kinds of coffeecake, and two kinds of fudge. Dean always tried to have a few pies out--lots of coffee shops didn't bother with pies, but they were his personal favorite. Today there were lemon meringue, bumbleberry, and chocolate mousse pies available.

"Hi, guys. Let me know if the timer goes off and I don't hear it, okay?" Jo and Andy nodded. They could hear the oven timer from the counter, but if Dean wandered to the front window, as he was doing now, or even outside, he wouldn't notice until the odor of scorched butter and flour wafted out.

Finished with helping Lisa, Jo joined Dean at the front window. "You okay? You look kinda upset. Something up?" She wiped down the tables and chairs with a damp towel. The mallard green seats and light gray tables were inviting and bright. Fluorescent letters still hung in the big window, but now they spelled out "Hallowed Grounds". When Dean had opened the shop, he wanted to honor his mother, but in an updated way, so he chose a nod of the head to her beliefs along with one of his own corny puns. He'd had to completely renovate the space, and had done most of the work himself. He'd hired an electrician, a plumber, some labor to help with things like drywall mudding, but he'd spent all his time in here, working until the wee hours.

Now he lived in the same apartment above the bakery that he'd spent his toddlerhood in. When he finally moved in, he didn't know at first if the ghosts of his family would disturb him there, but instead, he found it warm and comfortable--it was his sanctuary where he could fully relax and recharge. The air throughout his home always smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, underlaid with the rich scent of coffee.

His days were demanding, which made it convenient to be so close. He came downstairs every morning at four to set up for the morning rush, prepping coffee urns, getting the first round of baked goods done and displayed in the case. He and Jo opened the doors promptly at six a.m., Andy joining them around seven, and they did a brisk business until ten. Then he could hand the running of the shop itself over to his employees and go into the back to bake a new round of cookies, muffins, and pies.

Baking was his love and his joy. Dean was never happier than when wrist-deep in batter, with flour dusting his arms and his apron covered in fruit stains. He baked standards like chocolate chip cookies and apple pie; he experimented with savory treats, with esoteric treats, with kooky things he thought of in dreams. Not all of them worked-- the coconut maple pistachio bars were deemed a loss and tossed out, for instance. But he had a sensibility about what worked, a deft touch, a fearless attitude, and above all, he loved what he was doing.

"Hi, Lisa, how's the fudge today?" He smiled at her faint blush, like she'd been caught being naughty.

"Oh, fabulous! So rich and creamy," she replied, toasting him with her coffee cup. "You really have a magic touch, Dean." She batted her dark lashes at him. They'd parted as friends, but every once in a while, she dropped a hint that they could be, as the phrase went, with benefits. Dean always politely declined.

"Excellent! If there's a special flavor you'd like me to make, just let me know." He patted her on the shoulder and moved on to the next table.

Charlie Bradbury was sitting there, her purple laptop open in front of her. Dean could see brightly colored figures with speech bubbles on the screen, and he smiled. Charlie ran the comic shop two doors down, and often came in around eleven to hang out and work before she opened at one. She also helped Dean with his computerized register system, including an unsuccessful attempt at setting him up with Quickbooks so he could keep track of his expenses and bills. Computers and Dean did not get along well, and he cringed at the thought of telling her his paperwork was all snarled up yet again. He knew she'd sigh at his 'adorable ineptness' and figure it all out in an hour or so...until the next time.

"Hi, Charlie, what'd you get today?" He sat in the chair opposite her, smiling at her hot pink t-shirt with 'Nerds Do It Smarter' in white letters across the front. Her red hair was in two braids, like Pippi Longstocking's, in some kid's book he'd read and liked while in some foster home, although he'd strangle anyone who knew that.

"A lemon poppyseed muffin and a tiny slice of the chocolate mousse pie. How could I resist that? Especially when I have PMS!" She bought a small forkful of pie to her lips, sitting back and crooning with pleasure. "Jesus, Dean, this is fucking sinful!" Dean groaned and rubbed a hand down his face. She opened her eyes and laughed. "Sorry, TMI?" she said, with a little smirk.

"Little bit!" he said, smiling broadly at her. He couldn't resist her good humor, and if this was PMS, then every woman should be lucky enough to have it like this, as it didn't seem affect her more than her chocolate craving.

"Well, get over it, Winchester. Someday you're gonna have a girlfriend, and you need to know these important things." She sipped her double mocha.

Dean looked at the table, pushing around the little shakers of sugar and cinnamon. He didn't ever plan on having a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. His heart was carefully and deliberately stashed away, and he had no plans to ever take it out. He did like sex a lot, and he had no problem getting all he wanted. Boy or girl, their gender didn't matter to him--it was all enjoyable.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell yourself that, Bradbury. What about that chick with the black hair you met at the last ComicCon? Teresa? Terry?"

"Tessa, but she went back to school. Mmm, she did this thing..." Charlie's eyes glazed over momentarily, and Dean snickered.

"Careful, you're going to drool on your muffin...oh, shit, that came out wrong!" He stuck his tongue out as she burst out laughing.

"Oh, Dean, that was perfect. Now go do your baking magic thing and let me finish catching up on the latest Avengers issue. Pizza this Friday?" She scraped the last remnants of chocolate from her plate.

"Yeah, you got it. Be good, Charlie." He stood and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him with a beaming smile and saluted.

Jo waved him back to the register. "One, your timer just went off. Two, I just got some more cream cheese for the bagels, and I saw your phone on the shelf in there." She presented him with the phone, now quite chilly. "Your voicemail is blowing up."

The little device was indeed playing the opening riff of "Back in Black" endlessly. Dean snatched it from her hand and turned it off. She looked at him, one eyebrow arched. "Oh, really....it's like that, is it?" She winked.

"No, no it isn't," he replied stiffly, despite the churning in his stomach. "Anyway, I have crumbles to attend to."

He stalked into the back, grabbing mitts and pulling the crumbles out. They looked perfect and smelled even better. Pleased with his results, he left the pans on cooling racks, turning to the muffins he'd taken out earlier. He lined a long shallow pan with wax paper and filled it with the muffins, bringing them out front and handing the tray to Andy.

"Wow, these smell great!" Andy enthused. His eyes roved over the pan hungrily.

"Go ahead, you know you wanna have one. You can do the taste test," Dean said with a grin, returning to the back before Jo could pin him down again.

He went into the tiny room that served as his office. A computer monitor perched on the cheap table he used for a desk, and a battered two-drawer filing cabinet sat on one side. Papers covered the rest of the table's surface, reminding him he either had to knuckle under and ask for Charlie's help, or pretend he had died to his creditors. The business made enough money to cover his expenses and then some, but somehow he kept losing track of where he was with it all. He sighed. He loved having his own business...he just hated this side of running it.

He plopped down in the rolling chair. It creaked ominously underneath him. Great, another thing to deal with. Like he _wanted_ to go to Staples and get a new one. Maybe he could con Jo into going for him.

In the meantime, there was his phone. It had warmed back with the heat of his hand, and now he dumped it on the desk, where a mug adorned with the Hallowed Grounds logo stared back at him accusingly.

_Why the hell had Sam called him, after three years?_

"Dean! _Dean!_

Sam's floppy hair popped up from the lower bunk, followed by his ever-curious hazel eyes. Dean sighed. He loved his little brother to pieces, but sometimes a guy just needed a little...alone time. Like when he had a boner the size of a 747. He'd hoped to quietly rub one out before anyone came looking for him. There was no privacy in the bathroom even, with a dozen boys living there. Even the shower was open, like the one in the locker room at school. Sometimes a seventeen-year-old boy had to take things into his own hands and seize the moment.

No such luck now. He pushed hard against his erection, willing it to go away,

It refused, twitching inside his too-small boxers. Shit, even the soft friction of the fabric made him bite back a moan.

"What is it, Sam?" His voice was uncharacteristically sharp from trying to rein himself in, and he regretted it immediately as he saw Sam's eyes fall.

"Sorry, Dean. I'll, uh...I'm come back later." The head disappeared.

Dean propped himself up on one elbow, cursing at himself. "No, Sammy, c'mere. What is it?"

Sam's eyes reappeared. Dean patted his bunk. "Come on up, buddy. I'm sorry for snapping at you."

"It's okay, Dean. Sorry for bothering you." Sam crawled up and settled on Dean's bed. His eyes fell on the bulge in Dean's jeans, and he caught his breath, quickly looking away. Dean knew that Sam, at thirteen, knew all about boners and jerking off. He just still got embarrassed about them.

"See something you like, Sammy?" Dean joked.

Sam turned his eyes back to Dean, and Dean's laugh died. Sam's eyes were dark, his pupils wide, and Dean suddenly realized there was a matching bulge in Sam's jeans. Was he...turned on?

By Dean?

"Sam, fuck, what..." Dean started to speak, when Sam lunged at him from the foot of the bunk, clumsily pressing his lips to Dean's, his hands sliding around Dean's neck.

Sam murmured, "Please...wanna kiss you...kiss me. Please, please, kiss me." His lips smashed against Dean's again, pressing hot and wet on Dean's own.

Dean was frozen, unable to process what was happening. Except for his dick--it knew just what was happening, and it liked it. A lot.

_So hot, Sam was so beautiful, so eager._ Dean moaned, his arms embracing Sam. Holding him closer, Sam's chest pressed hard against his own. Sam's coltish arms holding on so tightly, his body crawling into Dean's lap. Sam's erection rubbing Dean's, igniting a desire that Dean had spent months fighting, hiding. The desire sparking his nighttime fantasies, unspooling in his mind while his hand stripped his cock, shooting into the cheap cotton sheets, leaving him relieved but unfulfilled.

_So wrong, so fucking wrong._

Dean grabbed Sam's biceps, tried to pull him away. Sam clung like a limpet, grinding his hard-on onto Dean's matching one, leaving him breathless and weak.

_So good...so perfect. Everything he thought it would be, and more._

"No!" Dean pushed and Sam peeled away, his eyes staring and his face shocked.

"Dean, please...want you. You want me too, I felt you. You're just as hard as me," Sam protested. He tried to move in again, but Dean held him off.

"Sam--you are thirteen. And, hello, you're my brother! This can't happen. It's not going to happen. I'm not going to have sex with my little brother." Dean's voice softened. "I'm supposed to protect you, not take advantage of you." He kissed Sam's sweaty forehead, pushing his bangs aside with a gentle hand. "Sammy, what kind of monster would that make me?"

"Does that mean I'm a monster? Because I think about you all the time, Dean. About kissing you, touching you, having you touch me. Every time I do, I get hard. So, am I a monster?" Sam snuffled in Dean's arms. "I want you so bad."

_Oh, God, so do I, baby, so do I._

"You're not a monster. You're a horny, thirteen-year-old boy with no one to fixate on but your admittedly hot older brother." Dean smiled a little, cupping Sam's face and looking into tear-filled eyes. Sam managed a half-smile back. "We have a weird life, and there's no one but us. It's pretty natural that your...attention is focused on me. One day, and pretty soon, we'll be out of crappy places like this and make our own home. Then you'll meet plenty of people you are attracted to, okay?"

Sam nodded. "If you say so." He kissed Dean's cheek and sat up. "We'll see, I guess." He swung his legs over the edge and dropped down softly. "We'll see."

Less than a year after that, Dean stood surveying his first apartment. It was tiny; almost a studio, except for a second room that they would have to share for a bedroom. He didn't care about that--he slept better when Sam was near him, when he knew Sam was safe and all right. He'd hoped for better, but with his job at the grocery store, this was all he could afford for now. As it was, he'd lied to the social worker and told her he'd sleep on a fold-out couch in the living room, letting Sam have the bedroom alone. She'd pursed her lips as she looked around the small space, but Dean's effort to appear mature and Sam's eagerness to be out of foster care apparently swayed her, and she signed off on the document that would allow Dean to become his younger brother's guardian.

At eighteen and fourteen, the Winchester boys were officially on their own.

"Happy birthday, Sam!" Dean pulled out the cake he'd made on the sly at the grocery store's bakery, pretending it was an actual customer order. It was Sam's favorite: carrot cake with cream cheese icing, and Dean had written "Happy Birthday Samantha" in hot pink icing, just to tease his brother.

Sure enough, he got a classic Sammy bitch-face before Sam relented and smiled, those incredible dimples momentarily stunning Dean. They took Sam's face from attractive to beautiful.

"Thanks, Dean! It looks awesome!" Sam poked a finger into the white icing. "Cream cheese! Is it a--"

"Carrot cake! Of course, I wouldn't make you anything else, little brother!" Dean presented a knife and spatula with a flourish. "Go ahead." He watched with a little nervousness as Sam carefully cut a slice, then a second, putting them on the plastic plates they used for eating. The silverware was all mismatched pieces that Dean had picked up at Goodwill. What the hell, who needed matching shit like that anyway? If it got the food to their mouths, that's all that counted. He stifled the wish that someday they could have things that were a little...nicer.

Sam took a bite of his cake, his eyes closing and his tongue licking over his pink lips. Dean had to look away for a second, before he chubbed up at the sight. _When does this go away? Four damn years and I still want him. Shit._

"This is amazing! The best you've made yet." Sam savored another bite, causing Dean to gulp some of his beer down in an effort to distract himself. Choking because he gulped too fast worked fine on that front. "Thank you so much." Sam put his plate down and hugged Dean, thumping him on the back until Dean nodded that he was okay.

As Dean hugged Sam back, he was reminded anew that Sam was now two inches taller than he was. At eighteen, Sam was not only taller, he was filling out fast; chest deepening, arms bulking up, new muscle being added all the time. His voice had broken some time ago, and his laugh now sent shivers through Dean. Sam's big puppy-paw hands were still a little oversized, with long, slim fingers, and Dean thought dirty thoughts when he looked at them. Thoughts that he berated himself for, but couldn't help when he was in the shower jacking off, or home alone and surfing porn on Sam's laptop. He'd drift from the busty girls to the ripped guys, and then he'd think about how Sam's cock would look naked, was he proportional, how would he sound when Dean sucked him...

"Dean?" Sam was looking at him curiously. Dean mentally shook himself and smiled. "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine." He untangled himself from Sam's embrace, stepping away and running a hand over his hair.

"You looked a little lost there for a minute." Sam's voice was filled with concern. Dean looked up to reassure him, but was startled to see a flash of heat in those hazel eyes.

_Did I imagine that?_

They'd never discussed the incident in the bunk bed. Sam had remained cuddly for a few more months, but then adolescence kicked in full force. Their physical contact had shrunk to the random hug, and Dean had been relieved while he missed the closeness at the same time. It had spared him a lot of cold showers and self-loathing for a few years.

Sam finished his cake with several more compliments, then rinsed his plate and put it in the sink. He turned back to Dean, leaning against the sink with his hands casually on the counter behind him.

"So, Dean, I'm eighteen."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, you are. How about that, huh?"

Sam pushed off from the counter. "Know what that makes me?" He slowly walked back to Dean, eyes regarding him steadily.

"Uh, no. I guess you can have a beer now." Dean started to feel a little nervous as Sam got closer.

Sam stopped right in front of him, a scant few inches away. He reached one stupidly long arm out, latching a finger in Dean's belt loop. He gave a little tug, bringing them chest-to-chest. Dean could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

"It means I'm legal."

Sam kissed him before Dean even registered the words, his lips pressing insistently. Dean responded automatically as the tip of Sam's tongue ran along his mouth, opening beneath that hot, wet probe, letting Sam lick his way in and tangling their tongues together.

_Fuck! What is this? Stop, you asshole!_

Dean pushed on Sam's chest, and the feel of dense muscle beneath his hands surprised him. Surprised ...and excited. He managed to create a little space between them, enough to stammer, "Sam! You might be legal, but last I checked, you were still my little brother."

Sam smirked. "Not so _little_ anymore--I'm a good two inches taller and probably fifteen pounds heavier, and my dick is all grown up now too." He ran a finger, down Dean's chest, and Dean couldn't repress the shiver that trailing finger gave him. "Yes, we're still brothers, and I would never change that. But that's not enough to make me not want you, and I'm pretty damn sure you want me. I've seen the looks you think I miss, and the guys you look at on my laptop. So let's face facts, okay?" He kissed Dean again, his mouth sealed on Dean's, his body pressed against his brother's. Dean could feel Sam's hard-on, and cursed at his own unruly dick that was responding to the heat, the pressure, _Sam_.

They broke apart again, Dean with a little gasp. Sam went on. "Fact: you're still the hottest guy I've ever seen." _Kiss._ "Fact: I've had a hard-on for you since I was thirteen. I never forgot about the kiss in your bunk--how good you felt, smelled, tasted. Never." _Kiss._ "Fact: you want me too. You wanted me back then, but you wouldn't take any action. And I love and respect you for that. You did the right thing back then--I was a kid, and I didn't know what I was really asking."

Another kiss, this one filled with tongue and spit and heat and moaning. "But now we're all grown up. Now we can decide as adults. And my adult decision is that I...want...you." The last three words were punctuated with soft, brief pecks on Dean's lips. "I don't care that it's 'wrong'. I don't plan to make noise about it. No one has to know. I just want to be here with you, in one bed. Our bed. Where we make love." He studied Dean. "What do you want?"

Dean felt his brain freeze. This was so wrong. But Sam was right--he was an adult now, and this was freely his choice. No co-ercion. No seduction. Just a blunt statement.

"Fuck yeah," he blurted, and yanked Sam into his arms.


	3. And Light Remaining after Thunder

They couldn't let go of each other long enough to get to a bedroom. They stumbled down the hallway, Dean's back hitting the wall, and Sam's shoulder careened into a door frame when they maneuvered their way into Sam's room. Dean thrilled at the feel of Sam's large hand cupping the back of his head, keeping their mouths smashed together, while Dean's hands dug into Sam's hips, barely allowing them to move.

They collapsed on Sam's bed, Sam falling and bringing Dean down on top of him with a grunt. Dean heartily approved of this, grinding his hips down and rutting against Sam's groin. He could feel the iron of Sam's erection beneath his jeans, and shifted so his own hungry cock was directly pressing down on it, drawing soft moans from Sam as his hips bucked up. _Harder harder more more_ clamored Dean's dick, seizing control of his hips and pushing them against Sam.

"Fuck," panted Sam. "Off, off, c'mon, get them off..." He let go of Dean's ass to fumble at his own fly, pushing at the recalcitrant denim. Dean gasped agreement, pulling himself up long enough to scrabble at his zipper and shove his jeans down to mid-thigh. His boxers snagged on his dick, the fat head of it catching just below the elastic waistband. Dean yelped, then cursed while untangling himself from the clingy material. Sam's snicker turned into a moan when Dean's cock sprang free, bobbing heavily, already completely hard. "Shit, shit, shit...God, Dean, so pretty, so fucking big..." he babbled, eyes riveted to Dean's dick, watching avidly as Dean gave himself a couple of swift strokes. A thin string of clear fluid dripped from Dean's slit onto Sam's lower belly; Sam's breathing shortened into pants and his own cock jumped, leaving a matching shiny smear across his tan skin.

Dean was similarly impressed with Sam's cock, his mouth watering at the thought of sucking the rigid, velvet-covered shaft that twitched so temptingly in front of him. "Jesus, Sam, wanna suck you off," he said hoarsely. "What do you want? I'll do anything you want, love you so much, so fucking hot..." He gasped at the feel of their cocks touching skin-to-skin when he lowered himself so that they were again rubbing against each other, only now with no barriers.

Sam groaned, sliding his hands from Dean's waist to his ass again, gripping his cheeks firmly and rotating underneath him. Pre-come leaked freely from both of their cocks, giving them a little ease from the dry friction and prompting them to rut harder. Dean rested his weight on one elbow by Sam's head; Sam was strong, but Dean still felt like he was going to crush his brother. He kissed Sam, hot and sloppy, Sam kissing back just as passionately; tongues probing, thrusting, matching the rhythm of their hips, lips slicking with spit, leaving them buzzing and swollen.

 _Sam, Sam, this is_ Sam _...Sam's cock, Sam's amazing body, Sam's delicious fucking mouth..._ chanted Dean's mind, the very thought of finally getting to make love with Sam overwhelming him just as the incredible feel of Sam overwhelmed his body. Sam's skin was so smooth, the muscles underneath it moving and sliding powerfully as he gripped and held Dean. Sam's chest was just lightly dusted with dark hair, so different from Dean's own smooth one, and Dean loved how it felt as it rubbed against his nipples, already so hard, scratching them in the most tantalizing way. Dean's free hand toyed with one of Sam's little brown nubs, tweaking and tugging it, rolling it, and he felt a stab of joy when Sam's breath caught at his teasing; _he_ did that, _he_ was pulling those delicious moans from his brother.

"Dean...Dean, wanna feel you inside me. Please? Please?" begged Sam, kissing Dean between words.

Dean was thrilled and shocked at the same time. He hadn't thought ahead much more than what they were doing now; the possibility of them actually fucking had been too fantastic to even contemplate. "Sam, are you sure?" He caught Sam's face and looked into his eyes, pupils huge and black as they stared back at Dean. "Is that really what you want?"

Sam laughed softly, dimples flashing in his cheeks. "Dude, what did you think this would lead to? I'll suck and frot and fool around any way you want, and do it all with great pleasure. But do you think I want to be in this with you and hold back on fucking?" He released Dean's ass and smoothed his hand through Dean's hair, down his cheek. "I love you. I want to give you everything, take everything you give me. And that means fucking too." He slapped Dean's face lightly, immediately caressing it after, his palm dragging through Dean's stubble. "Jerk."

"Little bitch," Dean murmured back, grinning from ear to ear. "Then you're topping." He laid a finger on Sam's lips. "This time. I don't care after this, but this first time? You're in control." He mock-glared at Sam, who pouted but nodded.

"Okay. I understand." Sam pulled him down for a deep, soul-searing kiss. "Then let's get busy, because I'm going crazy here."

Sam reached a long arm to his nightstand, pulling out the drawer and rummaging around until he brought out a bottle of lube. "I, uh, like it better than just lotion," he said with a shrug. "So, do you want to top literally?"

Dean shook his head and rolled them over, Sam's long hair now falling into his face as his brother looked down at him. "Go on, Sammy. Fuck me."

Sam shivered, popping the lube open and laying a line of it down his finger. He slid down Dean's body, lapping at his dick and making Dean moan while he slowly worked a slippery finger into Dean's hole. Dean ran his fingers through Sam's dark hair, watching it shake as Sam moved up and down his cock, lavishing it with tiny licks as his finger pumped in and out. Then it was two, and am began scissoring them as well as fucking Dean's hole, working quickly to open him up.

"Turn about's fair play," said Dean huskily, and he grabbed Sam's leg, pulling him around. Sam moved obligingly, and Dean finally got to get his mouth on that beautiful, tempting dick, humming in pleasure as he drew Sam's erection into his mouth.

"Oh, fuck!" Sam gasped, his fingers losing their rhythm as Dean sucked on him. "Jesus, no fair....oh, shit." Dean chuckled, and Sam cried out at the vibrations running through him. "Fuck you, you dick...oh god, Dean..." His words trailed off as Dean started rolling Sam's sac, running a finger around it and tapping Sam's hole. Sam's hips jerked, and Dean choked a moment--when had his little brother gotten so goddamn big? Sam pulled back a little, mumbling an apology as he licked around Dean's shaft and head, siding three fingers in and out all the while.

"That's it," commanded Dean, pulling off the most delicious cock he'd ever had in his mouth. "I wanna blow you all the way, but if we're gonna fuck, we have to stop now!" He gripped the base of his cock tightly; the soft wetness of Sam's mouth was heaven, but he was also dying to feel Sam's cock inside his body. Like, now.

"Yeah, yeah," gasped Sam, evidently feeling the same urge as Dean. Sam quickly flipped around, and Dean spread his legs wide, silently inviting his brother to enter him. Sam took hold of his erection and rubbed the tip over Dean's hole. "Oh, shit! What about a condom?"

Dean groaned with frustration.

Sam said, "Dean, this is my first time. Like, ever. For anything." He swallowed hard. "What about you--I mean, have you been tested?"

"Yes! Yeah, if I'm, uh, active, I go every six months, and I've never..." Dean cleared his throat. "I've never not used a condom." He searched Sam's face for his reaction.

Sam gave him a little smile. "It's okay, Dean. I never expected you to be a monk. I'm just glad you've taken care of yourself." He leaned forward and kissed Dean, his tongue sweet and exciting in Dean's mouth. "So...I vote we bareback. You're clean, I've never." Another kiss. "And, Dean...it's just us from now on. So we can keep it that way."

Dean's skin prickled, like there was ozone in the air. "You bet, baby," he breathed. He caught Sam's lower lip in his teeth, shaking it gently.

"Okay." Sam sat back, stroking his cock. He stared at Dean's ass, making him a little uncomfortable.

"What the hell, Sammy?"

"Dean, you're just--you're so fucking beautiful. All of you, even your ass and---and everything." Sam ran a hand reverently over Dean's thigh, balls, and down to his hole. Dean shivered at the touch and the love it contained.

"Okay, enough rainbows and unicorns, princess. Get busy and fuck me," he growled, and Sam laughed again. He planted one hand next to Dean's head, using the other to place the head of his cock at Dean's entrance and then he _pushed_.

Dean didn't bottom often--or ever, really, he just hadn't told Sam that--so it was more of an intrusion than he'd expected, even after seeing the size of Sam's dick. He tried to keep breathing, slow and even, as Sam kept pushing, feeling himself stretch, how his channel hugged Sam tightly. "Jesus..." he whispered, clenching his jaw.

"Oh, god, are you okay? Am I hurting you?" Sam's face went from slack-jawed bliss to immediate concern. "Oh shit, I am, aren't I?" His eyes scanned Dean's face anxiously. "Dean...have you ever even bottomed before?"

Being filled to the brim with Sam, more open and intimate than he'd ever been with anybody else, Dean couldn't bluff or prevaricate. "Maybe...not," he grunted, trying to evade Sam's eyes, but utterly failing.

Sam's concern became tempered with a little smugness. "Just me? Just right now with me?" he asked tenderly.

"Yeah...just now with you, you big girl." Dean's breathing relaxed as his body adjusted to Sam's girth. "Happy now?"

Sam kissed him, a kiss so filled with love that it brought fucking tears to Dean's eyes. _Who's the pussy now, Dean?_ said a bitchy little whisper in his head, but he resolutely ignored it, focusing instead on the cock that was filling him up.

"Yeah, I am...thank you. Love you so much, Dean." One more soft kiss, then Sam's voice sounded strained as he asked, "Can I move now? Fucking killing me here." He gasped as he tried to keep still.

Dean nodded. "Yes, yeah, do it! Move, Sammy, move, you motherfucker, I want it..."

Sam pulled back slowly, agonizingly, and then thrust hard and fast, punching the air from Dean's lungs. They groaned in unison, and Sam did it again. And again.

"Fuck!" yelled Dean, wrapping his legs around Sam's flexing ass, pushing himself against Sam as he fucked into Dean, his hands grabbing his brother's shoulders, ribs, anywhere he could reach. He felt himself moving up the bed, but threw one arm above his head to brace himself against the headboard.

"Fuck, yeah," breathed Sam, grabbing Dean's other arm and bringing it up to the first one, holding them together in one big hand. Dean was stretched out underneath Sam, pinned with his hand and his dick. He'd never felt so...helpless, felt anyone overpower him like that; Dean was always the top, the big one, the men he fucked as small as the women. This was a whole new sensation, and goddamn if he didn't fucking love it. He knew this was only because it was Sam--he could never feel this safe, this loved, this protected, except with his brother.

And his brother was fucking him hard now, driving into him, no more gentleness, just power and passion, triggering a fuse inside Dean that he'd never felt before. Between feeling a little dominated--he knew Sam would back off the second Dean said anything--and being fucked by someone larger than him, someone who could actually manhandle him, much less someone he knew loved him so completely, Dean felt his lust and passion ratchet up exponentially, making his skin hyper-sensitive, burning him from the inside out. His cock was streaming pre-come, he could feel it sticky on his belly as it jerked under Sam's thrusting. His balls were tight, so tight against him; Sam's balls were slapping his ass with a meaty smacking sound, matching their mingled grunts and gasps.

"Sam...Jesus, Sam...God, baby, never...only you..." moaned Dean, in between snatched breaths. His skin was sweaty and hot, he felt there must be steam rising from it, but in between his legs pounded heaven, Sam's cock plumbing depths Dean didn't know he had, sparking a sharp pleasure from some spot deep inside him and igniting a fire throughout his body.

"Fuck, Dean, fuck, fuck...so hot, so hot inside, so tight...fuck, I can't...can't stop. Hang on, gonna...oh fuck, Dean, gonna come--shit, baby, shit! FUCK!" Sam slammed into him and _stayed_ , cock so deep Dean thought he was gonna taste it, Sam's hips slowly grinding against Dean. Goddamn son of a bitch, he _felt_ it, felt Sam's cock surge and pulse in his ass, felt him shoot, the come flooding him so hot, slicking him inside so Sam moved like silk against him. Felt every throb of Sam's dick, the twitching of his balls against Dean's ass.

"Oh god, oh! _Shit!_ " Dean cried out, his back arching as electric jolts of bliss raced throughout his body. Sam still moved against him, his still-hard cock rubbing the pleasure node deep inside Dean's channel. Dean writhed in Sam's grasp; his cock twitched hard on his belly before pulsing out its load in forceful little jets, his release hot on his skin. He moaned loudly, chest heaving as he fought to breath, the pleasure choking him, forcing tears down his cheeks. "Sam..." he gasped. "Sam..."

He melted onto the bed, his muscles useless, his body boneless. He panted, unable to move, legs fallen to the mattress, Sam still between them. Sam collapsed too, barely clearing Dean's body, to lie next to him, panting just as hard, his hand releasing Dean's arms. Dean couldn't even bring them down, just left them there above his head. Sam put a hand on Dean's chest, his face practically in Dean's armpit, and they lay there, stunned and insensible.

The rest of that year, and the beginning of the next, were the best Dean had ever known. The childhood spent struggling, lonely except for each other, vanished into a haze of happiness. Mary's murder, John's death--all sublimated into loving and being loved by Sam. As much as he had loved Sam through the years, Dean found a whole new dimension of feelings and pleasure. Every day he came home, bursting through the door with the knowledge that now he would be with Sam. At the end of each day, Sam was in his bed. It was everything he'd ever wanted and never thought he'd have.

He worked full-time in the bakery of the grocery store, learning everything he could about cakes, cookies, muffins, doughnuts. Working with yeast, different flours, variations in temperature and humidity--he absorbed it all. Sam took some basic classes in community college, working part-time at the campus library and administrative office. On evenings off and weekends, they went to movies and drank beers and threw popcorn at each other during bad television shows as they cuddled on their second-hand couch.

And every night, they fell into bed together. Every night Dean held Sam, intertwined his limbs with his brother's. Some nights they turned in toward each other, trapping heat between their bodies and sharing their very breath. Sometimes Sam was the 'little' spoon with Dean curling around his back, an arm wrapped around Sam's slim waist or slung over his bony hips. Sometimes they didn't have sex, simply sharing a few sleepy kisses and cuddles before sleep claimed them. Other nights saw them twisting and writhing in sweaty, wrinkled sheets, groaning and panting, before falling into sated slumber.

It was perfect.

Until Sam left that August.  
  


Dean picked the phone up off his desk. The blinking light said that there were already three voicemails, so he'd better just get it over with. Clearly Sam was not giving up.

"Dean? Oh, Dean, thank you--"

"What do you want, Sam?" Dean didn't mean for his voice to sound quite that harsh, but oh well.

"What--"

"Look, Sam," Dean growled, and this time he _did_ mean it. "You haven't called in three fucking years, so obviously you must need something. Just spit it out."

There was a pause, and Sam replied, "Well, I guess I deserve that."

Dean rolled his eyes. _Ya think?_ These days, it was hard to remember how Sam had been the sun in his sky and the moon in his bed.

"It's school. Stanford. I...I got expelled."

Dean felt a rush of fury at the idiots at Stanford. How dare they kick his brilliant baby brother? What kind of idiots were they? He wrestled his ire down enough to ask, "What happened?" in a reasonably calm voice.

"I was accused of plagierism. It's when--"

Dean couldn't help the sarcasm in his voice dripping down the line. "I know what plagierism is, Sam. Not that stupid."

"Dean, I never...oh, never mind. I have to leave here--I'm being evicted from student housing. I..." Dean heard Sam take a deep breath, When he spoke again, he sounded like the five-year-old Sam that still lived in Dean's memory. "Dean, can I come home? Please?"

"Dean, when are we going to be home? I'm so sleepy." Sam's dark head rested against Dean's shoulder. Dean put his arm around his baby brother.

"Soon. Dad's driving as fast as he can and still be safe. When we get home, I'll tuck you into bed with Puppy, okay?"

Sam nodded sleepily, and Dean knew when he'd fallen asleep by the change in his breathing. It slowed and deepened, and Dean found his own head nodding. Even at nine, he knew they shouldn't be up so late, but Dad brought them on his trucking runs a lot now. He used to leave them with Mrs. Harvelle, who lived near their old apartment. She had a daughter, Jo, who was a little younger than Sam, and they liked to play together. But lately Dad took them along on his runs instead.

At first it was kind of fun. Dad's truck had the big cab with a little sleeping area. They brought some toys and coloring books, and Dean would read to Sam. They'd look for license plates and Dean would tell Sam what states they were from. They'd collect pamphlets at the rest stops, looking at brochures for Luray Caverns and Pigeon Forge Pottery and Dinosaur National Park. They'd pick up maps and plot out routes, see where all those cool places were.

"Daddy, can we go see the Caves?

"Daddy, look, we're in the state with the dinosaurs! Can we see them?"

"Daddy, can we..."

"Daddy..."

Until Sam finally stopped asking.

That about broke Dean's heart. He finally asked his father one night when they actually stopped in a motel instead of sleeping in the truck, all three of them cramped together. At the motel, there was a bed just for Dad and a bed for Dean and Sam. There was a soda machine, and an ice machine, and funny decorations like flamingos or cows. Sam fell asleep all sprawled out instead of curled up in a tiny ball. Dad was sitting in a chair watching television and drinking some gold-colored water stuff that hurt Dean's nose when he sniffed it. He didn't let Dad catch him smelling it; he did it when Dad was in the bathroom. The golden water--"booze", Dean heard another trucker call it--made Dad sad and angry at the same time, so Dean didn't know why he drank it at all.

"Dad, can I ask you something?"

Dad nodded, his tired eyes ringed with shadows that even a nine year old knew shouldn't be so dark. His big hand, a skim of dark hair on his wrists as they stuck out from his worn plaid shirt, grasped the thick glass and brought it to his lips for a deep swallow.

"Sure, whatcha want?" He put the glass down and stroked Dean's hair. "You got your mother's hair, you know? Sammy, now, Sam's got mine, all dark, but you--touched by sunshine." He took another swallow. "Stay in the sun, Dean. Always stay in the sun."

Dean didn't know what to say to that. "Uh, sure, Dad. I will."

His father nodded. He got up from the chair and started undressing for bed, leaving his t-shirt and boxers on. "G'wan, Dean, into bed."

"But Dad, I wanted to ask you something."

Dad sat on the bed, running his hands through his thick, dark hair and yawning. "Yeah, buddy, what is it?"

"Why can't we ever go to the things in the brochures? Take Sam to see the dinosaurs, or the caves? I looked on the maps." Dean got out the latest map. "See, we'll go right by them right here, it's just--"

Dad batted the map out of Dean's hands, crumpling it and throwing it on the floor. "We don't have time for that tourist shit. I'm working, boy, working to keep us fed and keep us together. Soon as I drop this load off, I got another one waiting to be picked up." He fell back into the bed, huffing a boozy breath that made Dean step back. "Go to sleep."

Dean stood there, feet fixed to the floor. Words tumbled around in his head, but he bit them all back. He knew they weren't going to get them anywhere. He slowly walked over to the other bed and got under the blanket. Sam was a little furnace, and Dean curled up around him, burying his face in Sam's thick soft hair. _I won't cry,_ he told himself firmly. _Nine is too old to cry. Dad's right. What's important is that we stay together._

He hoped he could convince Sam of that. Heck, Sam was five, how could he understand it?

Dean barely did himself.

The next morning, Dad didn't even seem to remember their conversation. He hurried the boys through dressing, teeth-brushing, breakfast. They picked up water and snacks for the next leg, wandering around the Gas 'n Sip while Dad tapped his fingers impatiently at the register. Dean finally picked peanut M&Ms and Doritos, while Sam chose jerky and Funyuns, as usual. They joined Dad at the register, clutching their crinkly little bags while Dad got himself a giant cup of black coffee and a bear claw. Dean wished it had been a diner morning instead, with pancakes and eggs and lots of bacon. Sighing, he settled Sam on the tiny bed in back, propping the pillows behind him and piling books next to him to look at. Sam was just about reading already, naming letters and spelling things out. Dean wondered how well he'd be doing if he were actually in kindergarten, like other five-year-olds. Dean didn't miss school for himself, except maybe playing with other kids, but he missed it for Sammy.

He climbed into the cab's shotgun, just in time to see Dad pour some of the booze into his coffee cup. "Is, um, that okay?" he asked hesitantly. He didn't want Dad to yell at him, but Dad always acted kinda funny after drinking booze, and Dean knew that they were supposed to drive several hours to his next drop-off.

"Get back with Sam, Dean. I'm fine. Go on, do what I say!" John didn't quite yell, but there was iron in his voice. Dean hopped out of the seat pronto, joining Sam on the bed in back.

That's what saved his life when the truck T-boned a water tanker.


	4. And Light Remaining after Thunder

The sound of the crash echoed through Dean's mind while he sat staring at his phone. Sam's plaintive request to come home was the first thing he'd said in the hospital, after he'd been fixed up with a cast for his broken arm, and various stitches and bandages for his contusions. Dean had gotten a concussion and contusions of his own, but the boys had been thrown to the side and spared any worse injuries by the heavy-duty construction of the truck cab and the cushioning of the mattress.

John had been killed instantly, ejecting through the windshield and flying onto the road, snapping his neck.

So much of what happened then had been a blur; hospital time, staying with the Harvelles for a while. Even Jo had played quietly, when Mrs. Harvelle told her the boys had to rest after their "terrible ordeal."

One day a couple of weeks later, there had been a knock on the Harvelle's door. When Mrs. Harvelle opened it, a stout lady had entered, with dark hair curled all around her head and dark red lips. Her dark skin had looked so pretty next to the bright blue top she wore along with her black pants. Her eyes were black, or else such a dark brown that Dean hadn't been able tell the difference. She'd sat on the Harvelle's puffy sofa and beckoned the boys to her.

"Sam, Dean, I'm Missouri Mosely. You can call me Missouri." Her voice was high and just a little husky at the same time.

"Like the state?" Sam had asked eagerly.

She had smiled at him, running a hand over his hair before she answered, "Yes, dear, like the state." She had turned to Dean. "I am so sorry about your daddy."

Dean had bitten his lip hard. Tears had come all too easily in those days.

Her voice was soft as she said, "Children, I'm afraid you need to come with me. I work for the state's Children's Services, and we are going to find you a new home to live in."

Dean had looked at Mrs. Harvelle, stricken."Can't we just stay here?" He'd never considered anything else happening to them. He'd known Sam felt his distress when strong little arms had wrapped around his leg.

Missouri had shaken her head. "I'm afraid not. This place just isn't big enough for all of you, and the Harvelles can't afford to get a bigger house. My job is to find a good home for you. And I promise you, Dean, that you and Sam will stay together, okay? No matter what, I'll make sure that you two will not be separated." Dean was even more horrified--the possibility that he and Sam could live in different houses had never, ever occurred to him.

While the time they'd spent in various foster homes was never wonderful, and often miserable, Missouri had kept her word. Dean and Sam were never parted during the entire time they spent in the foster care system.

The day after Sam's call, Dean cleaned up the kitchen in the afternoon and then threw his apron into the laundry bin. He came out to the register just in time to see Ellen Harvelle walk in. Ellen didn't work a set schedule, but she often came in whenever Dean needed the extra help. She was still a striking woman with masses of thick brown hair and a wide smile, and she'd cried when Dean returned to renovate the former Mary's Coffee Shop into Hallowed Grounds. "Your mom would be so happy and proud," she'd said, hugging him tightly. Even when not working, she came in frequently with friends to enjoy Dean's latest treat with some strong, hot coffee, or to sit and read over an afternoon cup of tea. Dean could still remember bouncing on her couch, and staying with her after John's death. He loved her with a quiet devotion, and she in turn still mothered him when he was tired or sick.

"Hi, Ellen," he greeted her, kissing her cheek. "Thanks for coming in today."

"No problem, Dean. Besides, now I can harass my daughter for a few hours," she joked, waving at Jo. Jo rolled her eyes and disappeared into the back to refill the milk and cream pitchers.

Dean laughed. "Well, have fun with that. I gotta take off for a couple of hours. The pastry case is all full, and there are extra muffins and cookies in the back. Some apple pies too." He fished his car keys out of his pocket.

"Andy, Jo, and I got it, Dean. What do you have going on?" She went behind the counter and picked up a clean apron, looping it over her neck and tying the strings back in front. The aprons were all a light gray with dark green trim around them, and "Hallowed Grounds" written across the front in the same dark green, with curls of steam around it.

Dean looked out the window for a second, not wanting to meet her forthright gaze. "I gotta go to the airport and pick Sam up."

He heard her little gasp. No one talked about Sam in front of Dean. Even without knowing the true nature of their relationship, everyone was aware of Dean and Sam's estrangement. Soon after Sam had left for school, Jo had casually started to ask after him; it had been an innocent query about how he was adjusting to California, and Dean had thrown an entire pie at the wall and stormed out of the shop. When he'd returned, the pie itself had disappeared, but the long red streak of cherry filling on the wall had remained until the end of the day. He'd finally ordered Jo to clean it up, and she had responded by throwing a cleaning rag at him along with a hearty, "Fuck you. It's your mess, you clean it."

He had.

So he had to admit that Ellen's gasp was not unwarranted. He was also hyper-aware of Jo and Andy standing frozen behind the counter, watching him and waiting to see what he would do next. He gritted his teeth, resolved not to give them any food for speculation about the state of affairs between Sam and him. Especially since he didn't really know what that state was himself.

"Yeah, he's coming back from Stanford. Guess he finally got some sense into him." Dean flicked his eyes back to his staff. "Get back to work, ya bozos." Turning away quickly, he strode out the door.

 _That was stupid. Why'd I lie? It's not my problem,_ he thought sourly as he got into his car. It was his one big splurge once the bakery had started doing well--a '67 Chevy Impala, midnight black and buffed to a high sheen, chrome trim and fixtures gleaming. She purred darkly onto the street as he pondered his unusual reticence. Typically, Dean was a let-it-all-hang-out kinda guy.

He sighed, releasing some of his coiled tension. Maybe it wasn't his problem, but whatever had happened to Sam, it wasn't Dean's story to tell either. And until he heard otherwise, regardless of any other complicated feelings he had toward his brother, he knew Sam was a straight arrow. He'd never cheated on a paper or test in his life--he'd never needed to, for one thing--and Dean knew he wouldn't have started now. Something fishy had happened, but he'd wait to hear from Sam what it was.

Sam stepped off the plane, feeling grimy, rumpled, and seriously in need of fresh air. The airplane's canned air felt like it didn't contain enough oxygen, and it smelled of countless past recyclings besides. He'd managed to get the seat at the front of coach, which gave him a few extra inches of much-needed legroom, but still it was cramped quarters for his six foot four frame. Perfume, stale smoke, and just the odor of several hot travelers felt like it had left a film over his skin that he couldn't wait to shower off.

First, though, he would have to see Dean.

Sam sighed tiredly. Part of him couldn't wait to see his big brother. Having been estranged for the last three years, he'd found himself desperately missing the love of the man who meant more to him than any other person in the world. Now, because of that estrangement, he had no idea what to expect when he saw Dean. He'd never thought he wouldn't know what Dean was thinking or feeling. Would Dean be mad? Cold? Happy to see Sam again? Not give a shit? There was no knowing.

And Sam knew he only had himself to blame.

Sam walked into the tiny apartment he shared with Dean, tired from dealing with annoying students at the community college library who wanted him to do all of their work. He really liked his job there, and it helped defray his own tuition, but sometimes he just wanted to yell at them to look shit up themselves. Punching out for the day meant leaving the cool library air behind, but he was happy to be on his own time now. His Dean-time.

The August sun poured in their kitchen, raising the temperature well into the sweaty zone. Sam groaned and headed for the bedroom, their little oasis with a small window air conditioning unit. "Otherwise," Dean had said when they bought it. "There will be no sex for the summer!" Sam ponied up the bucks right away after that.

He cranked the unit up, stripping off his damp T-shirt as the compressor chugged, He went into the bathroom to wet a washcloth, running the moist cloth over his hot face and torso. He moaned from the relief of cool water on his hot skin. A chuckle behind him made him spin around, and there stood Dean, one arm on the door-jamb, watching him and rubbing a hand over his crotch.

"Damn, boy, you put on a nice show," he drawled, leaving the door and sauntering over to Sam. "Can I help you take more clothes off? Wouldn't want you to overheat now." He kissed Sam's neck, licking up his throat and gently biting his jaw.

Sam shivered. Fuck, Dean could get to him in two minutes flat. His cock was already swelling, pushing at his fly so it could get to Dean. It would be so easy to melt against his lover and pull him onto the bed, kick off the sheets and just--

But there was an envelope in Sam's backpack that demanded attention first.

Marshaling his willpower, Sam pushed his brother away. "First off, I'm too hot for that." He rolled his eyes as Dean smirked. "You know what I mean! And second, I need to talk to you."

That statement Dean took seriously. He backed off and sat down on the bed. Looking up at Sam with concern, he asked, "What is it, baby? Everything okay?"

Sam sat next to him on the bed, but stayed a few inches away to keep his focus. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. In fact, better than fine. That's why I wanted to talk to you."

He got up and fetched his backpack from the living room. Sitting back down on the bed, he opened the flap and pulled out a large legal-size envelope, tossing it onto Dean's lap.

"I got into college, Dean."

Dean looked at him, puzzled. "Baby boy, you're in college now."

Sam shook his head. "No, like a big college. Ivy League. Dean, I got into Stanford University." He pushed the envelope closer to Dean.

Dean picked it up, studied the ornate crest on the corner. "This looks pretty fancy. And by fancy, I mean expensive. How're we gonna pay for this?"

"They gave me a full ride. Tuition, books, meal plan, the works." Sam looked down and blushed. "I guess I aced all their entrance tests."

Dean grinned. "Damn straight you did! No one is smarter than you, ya brainiac. That's awesome, Sam. When does it start?" He gave Sam a hearty clap on the shoulder.

"Beginning of next month, but they said I should come out at the end of this month--you know, get settled, move into the dorm, stuff like that. The last couple of days before Labor Day." He watched Dean carefully. Sam knew he was too chicken to spell it all out, and he hoped Dean would just...pick up on it.

And he did. "Dorm? You're going to live in a dorm? Why can't you just stay here, Sammy?" Dean cocked his head in confusion. "S'gotta be cheaper too." He winked. "I know it ain't about the freshman babes."

Sam's throat was suddenly dry as a desert. "Because it's not here, Dean. Stanford is in California."

Dean stared at him, the shock plain to see on his face. "California? That's-- _California?_ Like, the West Coast?"

Sam nodded dumbly.

Dean got up from the bed and walked around the small room. He turned to face Sam again. "What's going on, Sam? Are you unhappy with me? Why California, of all places?" He ran his hand through his hair, then slid it to rest at the back of his neck. Sam knew that was his tell for distress and confusion.

"It's not that, Dean. I love you, and I love living here with you. It's just a tremendous opportunity. I was thinking...I thought we could _both_ go. You and me. Move to California together."

Dean stared at him blankly. "Why would I want to move to California, baby?"

Sam felt a frisson of irritation. "I thought to be with me."

Dean walked around the room without comment, clearly trying to digest this. Finally he stopped by the window and faced Sam again. "Of course I want to be with you. I love you. But I don't want to be in California. My life is here."

Sam couldn't stop a scoff from escaping. "Dean, you're working in a grocery store bakery. What's the big deal? Can't you do that there?"

He knew he'd fucked up by the way Dean stiffened and his eyes chilled.

"Yeah, I _do_ work in a grocery store bakery. Thank you for reminding me of my place. I _don't_ plan to work there forever. I've been learning all I can so I can open my own shop. I thought you understood that." He crossed his arms on his chest, glaring at Sam, and Sam cursed mentally. Now Dean had his back up, and a defensive Dean was a stubborn Dean.

He got up to move over and put his hands on Dean's biceps, trying to speak softly but firmly. "I _do_ know that. But why can't you open your own shop in Palo Alto?"

Dean snorted in disgust. "What kind of name for a place even is that? 'Palo Alto.' I'm not planning on baking tofu doughnuts and sprout muffins." He shook his head, and Sam's heart started sinking. "I'm not a California kind of guy, Sam. I'm a beer-and-pizza guy, a classic-car guy, a guy who's never been to college and doesn't plan to go. I'm a guy with a GED and a give-'em-hell attitude. I'll never fit in there."

He uncrossed his arms and took Sam's hands. "Besides, there's something I've been meaning to tell you too." He stage-whispered, "I'm pregnant!"

Sam couldn't help laughing, smacking Dean in the shoulder. "You ass!" They both chuckled, and Sam was relieved at the break in tension.

"Okay, so tell me now--what is it?" he asked.

Dean cleared his throat. "Well, you know how the insurance money from Dad's life insurance has been tied up all these years?" Sam nodded--tangled in lawsuits and red tape, they'd long written that off as a loss. "Well, miracle of miracles, it actually finally cleared. It's ours."

Sam gasped. "That's amazing! I can't believe it, after so long." The light bulb went off in his head. "Dean, you could open your own bakery with that!"

Dean smiled shyly. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. If you don't mind--I mean, some of that money belongs to you."

Sam shook his head. "No, no--I want you to have it! We've been talking about this like a pipe dream for a long time, but now you have the funds to actually get a place and start it up." He heard a pleading note enter his voice, but was powerless to stop it. "Couldn't you do that in California?"

"No, I really can't," Dean said, not unkindly. Before Sam could interject, he went on. "I kinda already...I already got a site."

Stunned, all Sam could ask was, "Where?"

Dean looked him straight in the eyes as he answered, "Mary's Coffee Shop."

Standing at the airport, lost in memory, Sam could still feel the shock of Dean's announcement reverberate throughout his body. He'd been totally stunned. Their mother's old shop?

_Why? Why on earth there? Where our family felt apart? Was torn apart? Mom was killed just down the street. How could Dean go back there?_

He'd tried to ask Dean, but as far as his older brother had been concerned, the discussion was over.

And so was their time together. Alone and in silence, Sam had packed up his books to be shipped and his clothes and personal items to take with him. Dean had been glaringly absent from the apartment the entire time.

Two days later, Sam had been packed and waiting for a cab to take him to the bus station. It would make for a longer trip, but it was a hell of a lot cheaper than flying. As he'd sat on the steps of the apartment building, his bags against his knees, Dean had pulled up in the Impala.

"Get in," he'd said curtly.

Sam had replied stiffly, "'s okay, cab's coming."

Dean had pushed the passenger door open. "I said, get the hell in."

Sam had gotten in.

The ride to the bus station had been quiet. Sam's palms had been sweaty--how was this the end? The most exciting event in his life was also breaking his heart. He'd fought back the tears threatening to fall, had a headache beginning from the pressure of that struggle. He'd clenched his hands on his backpack strap, digging the buckle into his palm for self-control, pressing the full bag into his gut as a counterpoint to the ache inside there.

When they'd gotten to the bus station, Dean hadn't even pulled into the parking lot, but simply stopped at the curb near the entrance. Sam had sat a moment longer, not sure what to say or do. Dean had cleared his throat; the sound had made Sam, his nerves on a hair-trigger, jump. Normally, Dean would have laughed and made fun of him. This Dean--a cold and distant Dean, nothing like the Dean Sam had known all of his life--hadn't reacted at all.

"Okay," Sam had finally said. He had to get going or miss the bus, and what a clusterfuck _that_ would have been, stuck here with his brooding brother. "I guess...I'll see you." He'd opened the car door, feeling the last cracks opening in his heart as he got out.

"Here." Dean had stretched his arm across the seat, poking a hand at Sam without looking at him. A hand that had held a fat envelope.

"What?" Sam had taken the envelope, opened it. Had stared at the contents. "Dean, what is--?"

"It's not your full share. I'm sorry, I had to keep some to have enough to cover opening costs. But it's a good third, anyway." He'd coughed. "Wanted you to have it. Only fair. You'll need it."

Sam had boggled at the money. "Dean, you didn't have to--"

The car door had slammed shut, the Impala growling as it pulled away, leaving Sam standing there with his backpack, duffle, and the envelope.

Sam had gotten on the bus, heading for California, leaving his heart shattered back on the parking lot asphalt.

And now he was back. After three years of missing Dean endlessly, he'd returned. Three years spent working hard, studying, determined to make the pain and loss worth it, make it _count_.

All for nothing. All just to see his reputation ruined, his work thrown away, deemed worthless. Someone had framed him, made it look like his last several papers were plagierized, and he'd found himself unable to refute it. Despite his best efforts, he'd been investigated and found at fault. His friends had pulled away from him, not wanting to be associated with him in case they too were besmirched. His roommate had stuck by him for a while, but finally even Brady had joined the wolves ripping him apart.

Even if he hadn't been evicted, Sam had known he couldn't stay; he couldn't face the censure and shame that remaining would bring. Couldn't bear the abject failure of his hopes and dreams, the enormous price he had paid for them only to end up like this...

Standing in the airport, grimy, rumpled, starved for a shower and some fresh air, owning only what he held in his hands.

Dean parked in the airport's short-term lot and sat there for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He listened to the Impala's engine cool, the tiny metal pings seeming to bounce around inside his skull. _Sam._ Ping. _Sam._ Ping. _Sam._

Sam was inside that airport. Right now.

Waiting for Dean.

He thumped the steering wheel hard, cursing himself for a fool. Why had he even offered to pick Sam up? Much less agreed to let him stay for a little while? Why not just stake himself out with honey for ants to consume?

_"Please, Dean...just let me get back on my feet? I won't bother you for long." His brother's voice sounded tired, strained, defeated, and Dean--kicking himself even as he said it--agreed._

So now here he was--parked outside the airport, a block of modern white construction that looked like it had been built out of Legos.

And Sam was waiting inside.

_Well, might as well fetch him. He ain't going anywhere._

It was easy enough for Dean to locate Sam. He was the tallest one in the lobby. His face was fatigued, his clothes wrinkled, and a backpack and duffle rested at his feet. He was turning his head this way and that, clearly looking around anxiously...for Dean.

And he was still so fucking beautiful.

The force of his knee-jerk reaction to Sam's presence shocked Dean, and he suddenly realized how very out of his depth he really was. He had no idea how he was going to deal with this. Sam stood right there, a few yards away; older and taller, clearly a little travel-worn, and yet he drew Dean in like a damn lodestone. Maybe he could turn and leave, text Sam that he couldn't make it, tell him...

And then Sam saw him. Dean saw the light of recognition bloom in his face, those amazing hazel eyes shining, that wide smile with those fucking _dimples_ \--the ones he'd run his finger through so often, that he'd kissed, poked his nose into as he'd nuzzled Sam. The rush of love and desire swept through Dean so quickly and so hard he almost staggered, losing his balance on the tidal wave of emotion that inundated his heart.

He couldn't move. Couldn't react. And as he stood there frozen, Sam's face slowly fell, that inner light dying, the shutters coming down. The moment everything could have been forgotten and healed had passed; Dean knew it, and clearly so did Sam.

Sam approached him slowly, staying at a distance. He was polite and cool as he greeted Dean.

"Hey...thanks for picking me up. I coulda taken a cab, I didn't mean to put you out."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, 's okay. I got help at the shop." He cleared his throat; it felt clogged from the flotsam of the storm just a moment before. Now he felt desolate and alone, despite the swirl of people around them and Sam in front of him. The love of his life was back, incredibly had returned when it never seemed that would happen, and he might have well been standing on the moon instead of a couple of feet away from Dean.

"Well, come on then. You got any luggage?" Dean asked gruffly. Sam shook his head.

"I got some boxes coming UPS, but nothing else with me."

"Awright." Dean turned and walked away quickly. Sam followed, staying a few steps behind, his feet dragging on the pavement. Dean remembered how Sam had walked like that when they'd followed Missouri out of the Harvelles' apartment and into the unknown world of foster care; each foot scraping along the pavement, like he didn't have the energy to actually lift them anymore. Like he didn't dare lose contact with the ground, in case he was blown away by the wind.

Dean stopped abruptly, and Sam almost crashed into him. Dean turned around and grabbed his brother, pulled him in close. Wrapping his arms tightly around Sam, Dean could tell how much Sam had filled out with all the new muscle he'd built, but beneath that were still the rangy bones Dean remembered. Sam stood awkwardly a moment inside Dean's embrace before he relented and hugged back, burying his face against Dean's neck. Dean could feel tears trickling into his collar, down onto his collarbone. The neck of his T-shirt dampened as he held Sam's shaking body.

"Shhh, you're okay now," he murmured quietly, keeping his arms tight around Sam. "I gotcha. It's gonna be okay."

Whatever else Sam was or would be to him, whatever had or would transpire between them, Sam was first and always his little brother. His to love, his to protect and care for. Right now, his little brother was hurting, and that was all that mattered in this moment. Dean focused on that--the rest could wait.

Sam stood outside the bakery, staring at the bright fluorescent letters that spelled out "Hallowed Grounds" with the white swirl of steam around them. "Wow," he breathed. "Dean, it looks awesome." His eyes shone when he turned to face Dean. "This is fantastic."

Dean felt a little embarrassed. It was just a damn coffee shop and bakery, after all. Probably nothing like the fancy-ass bakeries and Starbucks in California. "Not that big a deal," he muttered.

Sam shook his head. "No, it's terrific." He reached for the door before hesitating. "Can we go in? I mean, can I see it?"

"Of course," Dean said brusquely. The emotional moment at the airport already felt like it had never happened. He opened the door and walked inside, Sam following. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam looking everywhere, taking it all in. Looking around himself, he saw afresh the burgundy and charcoal floor tiles, randomly accented with a dark green square. The mallard green upholstery of the booths was offset by burgundy trim and chrome bumpers, mirrored in the chairs pulled up to the light gray tables. The walls were a pale gray with a hint of teal that made all the rest of the colors pop. Yeah, he was pretty fucking proud of it. Screw California.

Jo and Andy were at the register, barely controlling their rampant curiosity. Dean wondered how much Jo remembered of Sam, her playmate from a million years ago. Before he could think of asking, Ellen came in from the back and saw them.

"Sam! Oh, Sam!" Ellen swept him into her arms, which was quite a feat since he towered over her. Nonetheless, to Dean it was like Sam was five years old again, the toddler who loved her before foster care ate their lives. Sure enough, he was crying again, not as hard as at the airport, but tears were sliding down his cheeks, disappearing into the dimples flashing when he smiled at the same time.

"Mrs. Harvelle!" He picked her up-- _picked her up_ Dean thought in a daze--until she squeaked and he put her back down. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he began, but she silenced him with a kiss to his cheek and a laugh.

"First of all, stop this 'Mrs. Harvelle' nonsense! It's Ellen. And second of all, it's been a long time since a handsome young man literally swept me off my feet!" She patted his chest. "Oh, Sam, it's so lovely to see you. It's been a while."

Dean hadn't known for a number of years that the Harvelles had moved away after he and Sam had left. It was during a visit from Missouri that she'd told him. He'd felt sad about it, but it already seemed to be from a life a long time ago. Soon after Sam had left for school and Dean had started work renovating Mary's Coffeehouse, Ellen had showed up. Bill Harvelle had died a couple of years before, and they'd returned to be back in a larger town than the small country burg they'd been living in. Jo had wanted to attend the community college, and Ellen finally felt ready to face the place where her best friend had been killed and the Winchester family broken apart. Dean had offered her a job on the spot, and she'd gladly accepted.

"Joanna Beth, come on out and see Sam! You probably don't even remember him. You two played together all the time when you were little, near drove me and Dean nuts." Jo came out from behind the register, staring at Sam curiously.

"I do kinda remember you, I think," she said. "You had all that dark hair and the dimples, and you liked to steal my picture books."

Dean snickered. Only Sam would be a book thief at four.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I did. You were so shiny-blonde and laughing, climbing trees and playing in the mud. Your momma was always yelling at you for getting scraped up and dirty." He put a hand out and gently touched her hair. "So pretty...I always thought that this must be what my mother's hair looked like."

Dean had to turn away before any tears fell. Cutting his eyes sideways, he saw Ellen choke, a finger wiping one eye.

After disengaging himself from Ellen, they went upstairs to Dean's place. Sam looked around the apartment, nodding approvingly. "Nice, Dean. Very nice." He looked out the windows, checked out the open kitchen layout and the contents of the refrigerator, poked a head into the bathroom. He looked at Dean as he indicated the hallway.

"Two bedrooms and another bath. I have the master with the en suite, you can take the other one and use this bathroom." Dean walked into the kitchen and opened a beer. It was a little early, but it was fucking hot, and he was dealing with the little brother he'd loved forever and thought he'd never see again, so he figured a brewski at three o'clock was permissible.

Sam went in the first door in the hallway and presumably dropped his bags there, since he came back out without them. He sat on one of the stools at the detached breakfast bar. "Thanks again, Dean. I'm really sorry to, um, crowd you or whatever. Tell your girlfriend or, uh, your boyfriend I'll try to get a place right away, not be underfoot." He looked out the window, his fingers fiddling nervously in his lap.

Annoyance crept through Dean's stomach, and he didn't even care about why. "Whatever, Sam. You've always come and gone as you please, so don't stop on my account now." He gulped half his beer down, narrowly avoiding having it pour down his collar. "There is no girlfriend or boyfriend. And please don't bring any hook-ups here, this is my home."

Sam got up, and Dean could see from his stiff posture that he was angry or offended. Or possibly both. "I wouldn't dream of abusing your _hospitality_ like that. Thanks for thinking so much of me." He turned to go back to his room, his bitch-face out in full force.

Dean scoffed, and Sam froze, although he didn't turn back, just stood there in the mouth of the hallway. "I don't think anything of you, Sam. I don't even fucking _know_ you, except that you got the same last name as me." He slammed the beer bottle into the sink, where it busily foamed over in creamy suds while Dean stalked to the front door and left, slamming it behind him.


	5. And Light Remaining after Thunder

The next morning, Dean was surprised to see Sam downstairs in the bakery by the six o'clock opening time. He himself had gotten up at his usual four o'clock in order to bake the first rounds of muffins, coffeecakes, and danishes, but he'd had no idea when he'd see Sam. Dean had gone out for a solitary dinner and another beer, and Sam's door had been shut and his light out when Dean returned.

"Hey," Sam said quietly, hands in his back pockets. Dean, pulling trays out and sliding new ones in, nodded back. "Uh, want a hand?"

Dean said shortly, "I got this." Sam's face got that pinched look, and Dean said gruffly, "Grab an apron and go help Jo and Andy up front. You know how to ring a register?"

Sam nodded. "Worked in the bookstore a while, then the cafe at the student center before I got the administrative gig."

Dean nodded. "Go to it."

He busied himself with his trays, then decided to make some cupcakes. Vanilla with mocha frosting, and chocolate, of course, with espresso frosting. As he gathered his bowls and ingredients, he peeked out front to see how Sam was doing. No, he just wanted to check on business. Yeah, that was it.

Sam was watching intently as Jo showed him the milk steamer. Dean knew he'd have it down by the end of the shift. If there was one thing to be said about Sam Winchester, it was that he was a quick study.

"Like this, Dean?" Sam looked up from between Dean's knees, one hand gripping his cock. Sam opened his mouth and sucked the head in, swirling his tongue around it, lapping at the slit. His eyes never left Dean's face; Dean knew Sam was studying his reactions, noting what made him gasp and shudder.

Dean, for his part, was utterly transfixed at the sight of those gorgeous eyes, a melding of brown and blue with hints of green, fastened on his face as Dean's fat cock stretched out those pink lips. They were shiny with spit and pre-come, stimulated to a dark red color. When Sam swallowed, Dean's cock moved in his mouth, making him whimper. The head slid back out, covered in spit, while Sam licked up and down the shaft, making little yummy noises like he was eating the best lollipop ever. He went to the tip again, running the tip of his tongue across the slit ever so delicately, then sucking the whole thing back into his mouth.

"Jesus, Sammy, yeah...just like that. Fuckin' killing me here, you hot little shit. Oh God, oh yeah...shit, Sammy, gotta stop, I don't wanna...oh fuck...Sam! Sam! Stop, gonna...fuck, I can't...ahhhhhhhhhh!" Dean cried out as his cock jerked in Sam's mouth. He felt strong pulses of come jetting out of his dick, but couldn't stop himself or pull out of that delicious hot mouth. Sam swallowed and swallowed again before he pulled back, letting the remnants of Dean's climax land on his mouth and chin, white smears that Dean couldn't help think looked like icing.

Sam's eyes were half-lidded and his shoulders shook, a shudder that ran down his whole body. He sagged against Dean's knee, breathing hard as he licked his lips.

"Baby boy, did you just come?" Dean asked, smiling. Sam nodded, a lazy grin playing on his mouth. "Yeah? Right in your pants?" Sam blushed and nodded again.

"So hot, Dean, feeling you come in my mouth like that, like a fuckin' freight train. I was already rubbing myself a little, and then--boom!" He shuddered again, rubbing his cheek on Dean's thigh. "Did I do good? Do it right?"

Dean pulled his boneless little brother up into his lap. "You did it great, baby. Best ever." He nuzzled Sam's moist, warm neck. "You always were a fast learner."

Dean's prediction was correct--by the end of afternoon rush, Sam had the cappucino machine down pat. There were further hot beverage intricacies to master, but steamed milk held no mystery for him anymore.

When Dean came out after cleaning up the kitchen, Sam was collapsed in a booth, feet up, apron stained brown from spills and sparkling with sugar crystals. "Wow," he said with a sigh. "You do a pretty good business here."

"Yeah, we do. And now, it's closing time, so up off your keister. Let's balance the drawers and lock up." Dean threw him a towel to wipe the tables down while he released the two register drawers and took them into the back. Jo wrapped up the remaining pastries and took care of the counters and coffee machines while Andy mopped the floor. When they were all done, Dean was too, and everyone tossed their aprons into the laundry hamper and left.

Sam and Dean went up stairs, Sam talking about Jo's tough demeanor and sweet smile, and how goofy and warm Andy was. He admitted that he wasn't really a big customer service person, but generally Dean's customers were there to get something they enjoyed, and they liked the place, so they were in a good mood and pleasant to help.

Dean let the words just wash over him, occasionally uttering an "uh-huh" or some such conversational acknowledgement. Sam wound down, asking if Dean minded if he took a shower. Dean shrugged and gestured to the bathroom. He saw Sam's face tighten briefly, but he just clenched his jaw and said he was going to take a quick nap, then they could get take-out or cook some dinner.

Lying in his room, the early evening light playing on the bed, Dean exhaled tiredly. This was only the first day. How was he going to put up all day with Sam, fucking ridiculously beautiful Sam, doesn't-even-know-he's-sexy Sam? His cock had been half-hard all day, seeing Sam's long, denim-clad legs and firm ass, the apron strings wrapped around his narrow waist setting it off just that much more. Just thinking about it made Dean's cock finish getting hard, and he had to free it from his jeans before he chafed. He fisted it slowly, letting it thrust through the ring of his hand loosely, not enough friction to get anywhere, but enough to make him hiss.

_Sam, big eyes staring up at him, mouth stuffed with his cock._

_Come all over his face._

_Pink lips smeared with cloudy white, the tip of his tongue sneaking out to lick all around his mouth._

Dean moaned, squeezing himself tighter now, the images piling up in his cortex and sending volts of electricity straight into the root of his dick. He ran his other hand around his balls, rubbing and rolling them, occasionally teasing his hole with a fingertip.

_Sam swiping his finger across his cheek, sucking it into his mouth like it was one of those gross sour candies he liked so much, his eyes closing in bliss, dark lashes hiding those incredible eyes. A throaty moan, a gurgle of pleasure--_

Oh God, he was gonna shoot any minute now, nothing got him hot faster than how his little brother...

 _"Dean...Dean...De--"_ Hot fluid spilled over Dean's fingers. He came hard, gasping Sam's name and spasming on his bed.

"Dean! Aw, man! Jesus Christ!"

Dean's door slammed shut, breaking his orgasmic bubble, jolting him back to the reality of an empty bed. It took his endorphin-laden brain a few moments to register--

_Who the fuck was just in here?_

Of course, there was only one person it could have been.

Sam.

Great. Sam had entered Dean's room just as Dean jizzed all over himself. While thinking about Sam.

Nice.

Dean looked down at himself in disgust. His empty cock was deflating, spooge was cooling on his hand and belly, and Sam had seen it all.

Just great.

Sam slammed Dean's door shut, horrified at walking in on his brother jerking off. He ran into his room and slammed his own door just for good measure. As he plopped onto his bed, a sick feeling roiling in his stomach, he struggled to figure out why he was so upset. God knows it wasn't seeing Dean's dick. He loved that dick. He missed that dick.

Ah, that was it. Time was if he walked in on Dean, he'd probably have joined in. Jerked him, sucked him, fucked him...they'd have laughed about it and gotten busy.

That sure wasn't happening now. And that knowledge? It left Sam feeling alone and sad like he hadn't felt in a long time. Like he hadn't felt since he'd left for California.

"Fuck!" He slammed his fist into his pillow. Had he really returned to Kansas just to face that he was still in love with his brother?

_Really?_

Well, that sure sucked.

Dean avoided Sam's eyes the next day, when his little brother came down to help with morning rush. Dean had baked in a frenzy, causing Jo to look at him curiously. "You're on a tear," she had said dryly. "What are you burying under all that flour and sugar?" He'd scowled at her, and then Sam had stuck his head in the kitchen to announce a busload of high school musicians on a field trip had just pulled up, and it was all hands on deck.

When things quieted down, empty cups, lids, stirrers and napkins were strewn everywhere and the pastry case was decimated. Dean found himself avoiding Sam's eyes, but he noted that Sam was behaving perfectly normally, and not at all like he had walked in on his brother while he was jerking off yesterday. He began to relax; if Sam wasn't going to freak out, then Dean wouldn't either. By the end of the afternoon rush, they were speaking at least civilly, if not warmly.

"Hey, you hungry? I'm too tired to cook. We, uh, we could go to this place next block over. It's got good food and the beer is cold," Dean offered casually to Sam. He tried to sound low-key about it; they'd gotten through the day pretty well, but he wasn't sure how Sam would take them socializing.

"Sure, I'm hungry. Lead the way." Sam followed Dean out the front door, and they started walking after Dean locked up.

The Pierpont Inn was a local bar and restaurant within easy walking distance, and they enjoyed the fresh air. "I go here couple of times a week. Sometimes I'm too tired, like tonight, and sometimes it's just kind of a drag cooking for one." Dean felt the need to explain why he was a regular. Once they'd arrived, Dean slung himself into one of the comfortable booths and grabbed a menu, while Sam looked around before reading the specials. As soon as the server came around, they both ordered beer, and Dean got a wings appetizer.

"Man, I'm starved. I'll get the deluxe cheeseburger platter--make that fries _and_ onion rings, sweetheart." The server laughed and winked at him. Dean was used to that happening frequently; waitresses, servers, bartenders, they all liked to flirt with Dean. A lot of the time, he flirted back. Tonight, though, he felt anxious about doing it in front of Sam.

Sam appeared not to notice the flirty server, and ordered beef stew and a salad. They chatted casually about the day's events and customers over their food. Sam asked some questions, and they even laughed a little at the amusing things, like the college student who couldn't decide which pastry to get, so he'd ordered one of everything. Every word helped Dean relax around his brother, until he'd practically forgotten about the debacle of the previous evening.

The inn's door opened, and Dean saw Victor Henriksen enter, waving at him with a smile. Victor smiled back and came over to their booth, clapping Dean on the shoulder. He nodded at Sam, looking at Dean with a raised eyebrow.

"Victor, this is my brother, Sam. He's fresh back from college in California, and he's helping me out at the shop for a while." Sam extended his hand and shook with Victor, shooting a grateful glance at Dean.

"Well, Winchester, someone taller than you! How's that settle in your craw?" Victor chuckled, a rich, dark sound in his baritone voice, and Sam snickered at Dean's sour expression. Victor himself was solid and well-built, maybe an scant inch or two shorter than Dean. "Sam, nice to meet you. And while I didn't know you were coming into town, I have to say that I'm glad you're both here. Saves me the trouble of looking for you."

Dean looked at his friend with surprise. Victor continued more seriously, "Dean may not have told you yet, Sam, but I'm a detective for the police force here in town. I regret to say that I have some business to discuss with you boys."

"What business?" asked Sam. "I, uh, I just got here, don't think I broke any laws yet." He half-smiled, but looked confused, and Dean felt confused as well.

"Sit down, Victor, come on and join us." Dean slid over on his side of the booth. "I gotta say, don't remember committing any misdemeanors recently. I did have a few beers too many last weekend, but I walked home to be on the safe side." They all chuckled. Victor signaled the server for a menu and sat down in the proffered seat. He snagged a couple of onion rings from Dean's plate, laughing as Dean pretended to stab him with his fork.

"So what's up, Vic?" Dean studied the other man's face. Victor was undeniably handsome with rich dark brown skin, a strong chin accented with a closely shaved black goatee, and a solemn demeanor that was easily belied by his soft, espresso-colored eyes and lush, pink lips that smiled readily. At one point, he and Dean had started drifting together, a distinct sexual tension building between the two men. One night after some scotch and shared confessions, there had been one brief brush of lips, but Dean had pulled back. It felt wrong. Dean enjoyed the odd fling, one-night stands, and a lot of flirtation, and he wasn't choosy about the gender of his partner. But Victor--he deserved more than a fling. He operated on a code composed of honor and integrity, and to treat him like a sexual plaything would not only be unfair to him, but make Dean feel like shit besides. He and Dean had settled on becoming good friends instead, sharing many a cup of coffee at Hallowed Grounds, and beers at the bar while they played pool.

Victor's smile fell and his face became serious. "I have some news you should be aware of, Dean. Both of you, really." Sam and Dean exchanged a puzzled look. Dean wondered what could involve Sam, who'd only been back for a day or two.

"Uh, Victor, I just got back here the other day. I've been in California the last three years. I'm not sure what could have happened that affects me." Sam's voice was polite, but clearly he didn't believe Victor.

"This does." Victor shook his head, rubbing his forehead. "It's about your mother. About...well, it concerns her murder. And her murderer."

Dean felt sick. The odor of his food, previously so delicious, now threatened to make him vomit. Victor's words echoed in his head, reverberating endlessly; they made him dizzy, threw off his equilibrium, nauseated him.

_It's about your mother._

"Mommy, when are we going to the park?" Dean asked his mother, pulling impatiently at her faded jeans. "I wanna swing!" He looked out the window at the sunny day--the blue sky, the puffy white clouds. He couldn't wait to go out and play.

She smiled at him. They were lucky enough to have a small park near the coffee shop, and she would take him there and let him run around, swing, play tag with other kids. "You'll sleep well tonight," she'd tell him when they would walk home for a snack after such an afternoon's playtime.

"We're going in just a minute," she told him as she packed Sam's baby bag. "I'm getting Sam ready to leave with Mrs. Harvelle. He's got a little sniffle, and I don't want to take him outside in the breeze this afternoon. He'll stay with her while we go play." She tucked a little blanket around the baby in his stroller. "Okay, all ready! Let's go!" Dean bounced around the door as she locked it behind them.

They walked down the block to Mrs. Harvelle's place. The Harvelles lived in a duplex; one side of the house belonged to the Harvelles, and in the other lived a family that Dean didn't know, except that their names were Hernandez, and it always smelled delicious and spicy around their door.

Mary parked the stroller by the steps and lifted Sam out, cradling him in her arms. She motioned for Dean go up the steps with the diaper bag, following him with the baby. Dean rang the bell before Mary opened the door and they walked inside. The house was cozy and comfortable, and Dean always felt at home here. The Harvelles and the Winchesters weren't related by blood, but they were family.

"Ellen, I'm here with the boys," Mary called out, setting the bag on the plushy couch. She told Dean not to bounce on it. He always tried to, because the cushions were so puffy.

"I'm in the kitchen," answered Mrs. Harvelle. Mary and Dean joined her there, where she was busily rolling out dough for biscuits. Several biscuits were already on pans waiting to go into the oven, and at least one tray was done, as a dozen golden biscuits rested on a cooling rack. The air was filled with the yummy, mouth-watering smell. Dean eyed them immediately, hoping for a taste. Mrs. Harvelle's floury apron was stretched over her big tummy; Mary had told Dean that Mrs. Harvelle was going to have a baby, just like Mary had had Sam. Mrs. Harvelle said the baby's name would be the same whichever it was--Joe for a boy, and Joanna for a girl. Dean thought that was very practical.

"Hi there, Dean! Hi, Mary." Mrs. Harvelle kissed Mary's cheek as she took Sam into her arms. "Oh, look at you! You grew this week, didn't you? Gonna be a big man, you are." She cooed at Sam, who gurgled and waved his arms in response.

Mary smiled back and said, "Thanks so much, Ellen. He's just got a little sniffle, and it's still kind of cool out, so I didn't want him to stay outside. Dean, on the other hand, is rarin' to go!" They both looked at Dean, who snatched back the roving fingers about to steal a biscuit.

"Go on, you can have one!" Ellen ruffled his hair as Dean grabbed a biscuit, biting into it with a sigh of contentment. "It's no trouble, Mary. I'll give him a bottle in a bit and he'll settle down for a nice nap. You two go enjoy the sunshine!" She lifted one of Sam's tiny hands and waved 'bye-bye' with it.

Mary waved back as she and Dean departed, Dean bouncing with excitement about playing in the park.

Zachariah sat on the park bench, closing his eyes and basking in the early spring sun. It had been chilly with the fading days of winter, and even today's tentative rays warmed his bones. A slight breeze ruffled his thinning hair. For a few moments he set aside the onus of his task, simply enjoying the beauty of the world his Father had created, despite the population of howler monkeys He'd seen fit to populate it with. _I don't understand His choices,_ he thought. _But that's not my place to do so. It is as He designs._ He sighed tiredly. _It's my job to help set things right. I go as you lead me, Lord._

A peal of laughter caught his attention, and he opened his eyes. A young woman was standing at the swing set, her blond hair shining like gold in the sunlight. She laughed gaily, pushing a little boy on a swing. He yelled in excitement, his legs pumping as he tried to go higher and higher. They played there a few more minutes as he watched, and he felt appreciative of their wholesomeness, at least as howler monkeys went.

"Mommy, wanna play in the sandbox now!" cried the little boy, jumping off the swing and running over to it. She nodded her permission and went over to a bench nearby, sitting down to watch him dig merrily in the sand. They were closer to Zachariah now, and he could see that the boy's blue T-shirt had a teddy bear on it, proclaiming "I wuv hugs". As he studied the boy, Zachariah noted the young beauty in his face; thick hair that wasn't quite as golden as the mother's but more of a rich honey, cherubic pink cheeks, and a rosebud mouth that stretched in a wide, joyful smile as he got progressively dirtier.

The boy looked up, like he felt someone watching him, and his eyes locked directly on Zachariah. The man felt that look like a blow. Enormous eyes, a vibrant green, staring straight at him. Zachariah started to tremble, feeling an apprehensive excitement building inside. Could it...it couldn't be, could it? Was this the One he'd been sent to find, that he'd been looking for all this time? Was this little boy in fact the Vessel for the mighty archangel, Michael? Had Zachariah stumbled upon this gift right here in the park, where he'd randomly chosen to rest for a few minutes?

 _The providence of the Lord is great,_ he thought ecstatically, and broken prayers fell from his mumbling lips.

He watched the woman and the boy a little longer, his heart rejoicing that the object of his search was right here in front of him. Now he just had to capture the child for Michael.

 _My life for you, Lord, I am always your servant,_ he thought. He stood up and casually walked over to the sandbox. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mother put down the book she'd been reading as her son played, her face alert and wary.

 _Too late. I have the speed of the Host on my side._ He pounced. His arms snatched the boy up from the sand, and his legs were already pounding the sidewalk, racing away before the mother was even up off her bench. Her screams followed them as he sped away from the park--he could tell she was running after him, but his lead was good. The boy kicked and squirmed in his grasp, but the little blows went unheeded as Zachariah headed down the street.

He knew the screaming would alert attention within moments, and he needed to go to ground. One hand clamped over the boy's mouth, muffling his cries while Zachariah ran down the block, turning right at one corner and then left into a service alley. The small building on the corner was vacant, as he knew from his walks around the neighborhood, and he ducked into the back door off the alley. A faded sign over the door advertised "Cappy's Sandwich Shack" in faded red letters, and underneath it boasted, "Best Hoagies in Town!" The boy's cries were still muffled by Zachariah's hand, and he hissed into his ear, "Hush, or I'll hurt you. Or maybe I'll hurt your mama." The boy quieted immediately at the threat to his mother, and Zachariah wound his way further into the building, finding a door on the far wall and then a stairway that led down into the basement.

The only sound now was his own labored breathing and the sniffles of the boy. The basement was dim, with only a little light coming in through a high, narrow window, and filled with junk; dusty, grimy piles of rubbish that Zachariah pushed past with his burden. Reaching the back corner of the room, he gratefully put the boy down--he was small, but heavy and solid. "Stay put now!" he said to the child, trying to sound menacing. The boy stood still and stared at him with big, green eyes.

Zachariah sat down, heedless of the dirt, and studied the Vessel. He was a pretty thing, and looked intelligent enough. "You have been chosen," Zachariah told him. "You have a destiny that others would die for. Be grateful for the gift that will be given to you."

"I want my mom," the boy whispered. "Please, let me go back to my mom."

Zachariah shook his head. "You are past such things now. You will be joined with the Lord's most important angel, Michael. He will fill you with his glorious grace, and together you will save the world from the Darkness."

He reached a hand out to stroke the boy's hair when the child grabbed his hand, bit it hard, and then screamed "MOMMY!"

Dean screamed for his mother with every bit of air in his lungs. He'd heard her chasing them, and he felt sure she would not be far away. She just wouldn't know they were in this old, empty building. So he screamed as loud as he possibly could.

The creepy man slapped his face, slapped it _hard._ Dean's scream was cut off by that blow, but it had done its job. "Dean! Dean, where are you?" His mother's voice was outside, calling for him! The creepy man reached to clamp his hand over Dean's mouth again, but Dean kicked him on the knee and yelled again.

Then she was there, in the dirty room, and she was throwing herself at the creepy man, yelling at him and beating on him with her fists. The creepy man started yelling as she attacked him, and Dean tried to help her by hitting him too. "Run, Dean! Run! Get out of here!" his mother yelled, struggling with the bad man. "Go!" He sidled past them, but hesitated, not wanting to leave his mother there. "Go on, Dean, go to Mrs. Harvelle!" his mother panted out as she shoved the man against the wall. She turned, grabbing Dean and running toward the door.

She didn't see the man get up and come after her, a big piece of wood in his hand. Dean saw it and tried to warn her. He didn't get to say anything before the man swung the wood at her and hit her in the head with it. His mother fell, a spray of red droplets falling on Dean as she landed. The man stood over her, swinging his piece of wood down onto her head again, and Dean saw bright red soaking through her blonde hair. Her blue eyes looked at him, filled with pain, and he ran.

He ran and ran, half out of his mind with fear about what the bad man did to his beautiful mommy, until somehow he found himself at Mrs. Harvelle's house. He ran right into her kitchen without even ringing the doorbell, blurting out "Please, Mommy's hurt...the man hurt her...please...please..." until he broke down in huge sobs, tears and snot and sweat running down his face. Mrs. Harvelle scarcely got anything more out of him, but she called the police as soon as she saw the blood on him and realized there had been an attack.

All that registered later with Dean was the police coming to see him and Mrs. Harvelle, who sat and held him tight as he heard snatches of, "Terrible thing...crazy man...so young and pretty...poor kid."

And something about, "Tried to hide the body with a fire. Awful sight...the flames all over her..."

He cried himself to sleep that night, and the next hundred nights afterward.


	6. And Light Remaining after Thunder

Sam sat frozen in the booth at the Pierpont Inn, watching all the color drain from Dean's face to be replaced by a greenish-white hue. He reached across the table and grabbed Dean's hand. "Dean! Dean are you okay?" He looked anxiously at Victor's face. Victor too was looking at Dean with concern, his arm around Dean's shoulders. "Waitress! Could we have some water here?" Sam called out.

"Out...let me out," Dean muttered, practically pushing Victor off the bench as he sought to get up. Victor jumped out of the way and Dean ran for the men's room, banging his way through the door.

"Shit," growled Victor. "That went well." He rubbed a hand on his forehead and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Sam I really didn't mean to upset him like that." He looked intently at Sam now, as if realizing afresh that he was there. "Are you okay?" His dark eyes searched Sam's face, while Sam sipped his own water and worked on breathing evenly.

It didn't hit him the same way it apparently had Dean. Sam had no memories of his mother beyond the few photographs he'd seen. She had been very pretty, with masses of blonde hair and a sweet, lighthearted smile. But Dean, he knew, had real memories of her. Remembered playing with her, having her fix his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, going to the park with her. He smiled ruefully as he though how Dean didn't like sandwich crust to this day; if he wasn't able to cut them off, he just ate up to them and left a thin rim of sandwich on his plate. Dean remembered being sung to at night, and how Daddy used to swing him up to the sky when he came home from work.

But worst of all, Sam knew, was that Dean remembered when that all went away. He never discussed it, refused to talk about it even when he'd been taken to child therapists and grief counselors. In fact, he didn't talk at all for over a year, according to Ellen. And when he finally did resume talking, he only talked to Sam at first, taking his responsibility as a big brother very seriously. He watched over his baby brother, taught him to count, sang to him at night. Protected him.

Because Mom was gone, and Dean remembered.

Tears filled Sam's eyes, making his food blurry and the rest of the world disappear, and he fought to hold them back. He wasn't going to cry in front of this cop, this quiet, serious man he'd only just met, who'd cracked Dean's world raw and open again. Sam trembled with the effort, gritting his teeth, swallowing hard. It wasn't about Mary for him--she was long gone and only known in the memories of others to Sam. His tears were for Dean...his big brother, the rock in Sam's life, and the man he was in love with, who'd just re-experienced the worst moment of his life. And this...cop, this stranger, could never understand.

A warm, heavy hand rested on top of Sam's fingers where his hands gripped each other tightly. "Sam," the deep voice murmured. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know...well, that it would be so raw still." The hand tightened just for a moment, then let go and moved away. Sam nodded gratefully and quickly ran a hand over his eyes, wiping away any errant tears surreptitiously.

Dean stood in the alley between the Pierpont and Charlie's comic shop, Moondor Comics, leaning against the brick wall with one foot up. He breathed deeply, sucking in the cool night air and trying to regain his equilibrium. He'd come out of the men's room, seen Sam and Victor talking intently, and decided he couldn't face them yet. Instead, he'd slipped out of the Pierpont and ducked into the alley to catch his breath.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, willing away the images that tried to rush in. _I'm good, everything's fine. Tomorrow I'll bake pecan rolls, those are popular. Maybe some orange rolls too. And a pie--love me some pie. I'll let Jo pick what kind it should be._ Distraction, denial, nothing's wrong, nothing's happening...

His heart slowed down, the rapid thudding subsiding into a normal rhythm, his lungs breathing easier. _Fuck, wonder what Sam's thinking about all this...No! Not Sam, not right now, can't go there. Can't deal with that. Think about that sweet ass babe from the bar a few of weeks ago, the one with the bouncy tits and pierced clit...she was awesome, yeah...what a hot fuck that was. Took her right up against the wall._ Dean lost himself in the memory, his cock stirring in his jeans.

"Hey." A strange voice spoke, and Dean's eyes opened. First impression was, not a bad-looking guy; blond, fair-skinned, almost willowy, but a little more solid than that. A little old for a twink, but not by much. Bright blue eyes, real Nordic type. Like he belonged on a ski slope or a Chapstick ad. "You, uh...looking for company?"

"Thanks, dude, I don't pay for 'company'." Dean pushed himself off the wall, facing the guy squarely. Sometimes that was enough to signal 'leave'--Dean was a big man, and he knew how to use his size.

"Not what I meant. I thought you--the way you were leaning there in the alley--but um, I was wrong I guess. Sorry, my mistake." The guy blushed, red circles blooming in his fair cheeks. "Really sorry, man." He turned to leave, ducking his head.

Dean watched him. He was a really nice-looking guy, and certainly not tall as a tree; he didn't have floppy dark hair and eyes that changed color all the time. He was just...nice. Attractive. And apparently available. Dean wouldn't mind some distraction right about now. Like...this guy. A guy who could help stop Dean from thinking.

"C'mere. Maybe I could use some company after all. What's your name?"

The guy came closer, his eyes fastened on Dean's mouth. Dean licked his lips, running his tongue around them slowly. The guy's eyes followed as he licked his own lips. Dean's dick started perking up. He liked sex and knew he could get it just about anytime he wanted it. Now would be nice--block out the anger, the memories, just sink into a nice hot mouth or ass and live in the moment. He'd pushed shit at bay with sex before, and doing it now sounded good. Really good.

"Come on, let's go back here a little. What'cha up for? Pretty hair like that, bet you get lucky all the time." Dean reached out a hand and stroked the guy's hair. Soft, smooth...Dean slid his hand behind the guy's head and pulled him in. "Maybe, you want a kiss?" He brushed his lips against the other man's, heard an appreciative mmm. "Yeah? Like that?" A nod, and then lips pressed hard against his own.

A few more brief kisses, each one bringing them closer together until they were completely pressed together. Dean could feel the man's hard-on against his thigh. "Wanna blow me? Want me to fuck you? What d'ya want, pretty?" He kissed the man again, harder and more insistent this time.

"Dale. I'm Dale," the blond man whispered again, lips moving against Dean's mouth. He slid his hands inside Dean's shirt, running them up and down his sides, extending his thumbs to catch at Dean's nipples.

"Dean. C'mon, let's take this a little further back here." They moved deeper into the alley, where Dean pressed Dale against the wall. "What do you want, Dale?" Dean rubbed a hand over Dale's fly, squeezing his erection and making him groan, press his hips forward into Dean.

"Wanna suck you." Dale's hand reciprocated, fingers outlining Dean's dick underneath the denim. "Knew you'd be big, want you to fuck my mouth." His fingers tugged on Dean's zipper. "Would you do that?"

Dean nodded. "Oh yeah, I'll do that." He pushed lightly on Dale's shoulders, and Dale fell to his knees. Dean finished opening his fly and Dale reached in to pull out his cock, already filling.

"Fuck..." Dale murmured. "That's nice. That's fuckin' beautiful. Bet you taste real good too."

He started licking Dean's cock without hesitation, making it plump up even more. Dean watched him for a minute and then leaned his head back against the wall, letting his mind drift with the pleasure of a hot, wet mouth on him and nothing else. As he hardened in Dale's mouth, he began to thrust a little, short jabs that made Dale moan. Dale kept a fist around the base of Dean's dick, but he slurped eagerly, licking, sucking, making little grunts that made Dean thrust harder.

"Easy, man. Gonna choke me with this thing," Dale said before diving to mouth at Dean's balls, one hand still stroking his cock firmly.

Dean opened his eyes, watching Dale slobber all over him. He was hard, he knew he was going to come, but there was no finesse, no technique. No emotion. No connection. _Fuck, when did I turn into Sappy Sally,_ he thought disgustedly. _A blowjob is a blowjob, they're all the same._ But he knew he was lying to himself. He'd received some great blowjobs, sure, but none of them ever matched Sam's. Sam knew just when to suck hard, when to tease, when to look up at Dean with big hazel eyes, his long hair drifting into his face, his deft fingers stroking and probing and driving Dean absolutely wild.

And Sam loved him. _Him,_ not his cock, his lips, his ass. Him. _Dean._

Dean felt his orgasm approaching, and deep in his mind he knew it was because of the memories of Sam and not the mouth currently working on him. Dale was simply a tool, a hot, wet tool that Dean was using, like a living fleshlight. He felt nauseous again; not as bad as in the diner, but ill at how he was using this poor schlub. He started pulling out of Dale's mouth when he felt his balls tighten. "Nggghhhh, no, no! I can't--"

But he could, and he did, all over Dale's face, Dale's hand pumping him through his spasms. A low moan from Dale indicated he too was coming, his other hand jerking himself hard while his cock spewed all over the asphalt. His sucking grew erratic as he convulsed, and Dean's dick spit out a few more splatters on Dale's upturned face.

"Dean!"

 _No! No! Not again!! Shit..._ Dean couldn't believe it. There was Sam, standing at the entrance of the alley, looking at him in horror. Dean looked down at Dale, saw the starkness of his white release all over the man's pale face--on his cheek, his ear, smeared on his mouth. A few drops clung to his hair. He looked debauched and used. By Dean.

Dean's cock slid from Dale's hand, dangling limply. Dean knew how foolish he had to look, standing there with his jeans open and his dick hanging out, dribbling a thin string of fluid. Of course, now is when Sam had to come find him. Goddamn fates needed a kick in the ass for this.

He stuffed himself back into his jeans, moving toward Sam. "Sam! I--wait, okay? Hang on. I didn't--this wasn't anything. Guy came on to me, and I was...I was so upset, and--fuck, it was stupid, I know it was, but Sam, please..."

Sam stood still, his mouth half-open, his expression one of shock and pain. Dean reached for him, hoping to make him understand that this was nothing, but Sam snatched his hand away. "Are you kidding? Your jizz is still wet all over his face. Jesus, Dean, I know you had some slutty days, but this? Really?" His mouth set in a line and his eyes became flinty. "All this time, Dean, I felt so bad for leaving you. Wished so much that you were with me. Even though I knew I had to go, I had to do it, and now--yeah. Well, fuck that shit." He spun around and ran, his long legs carrying him out of sight before Dean could even comprehend what had just happened.

Dean stood on wobbly legs. Between his orgasm moments ago and Sam's repudiation, he felt drained of any strength. If he hadn't locked his knees to remain standing, he would have collapsed onto the asphalt. His heart was pounding and his ears were buzzing, and his stomach...his stomach felt hollowed out and empty except for the acid roiling inside.

"Dude, you okay?" Dale came up behind him. "That was harsh." His voice roughened. "Not that you _aren't_ a jerk. I know this was a hook-up, not some fucking Cinderella story, but I am a human being. I was looking for a good time with a hot guy, not to be your...revenge fuck." He spit at the ground next to Dean's foot and wiped a bandanna over his damp face. "So long. Try not to be such an asshole to the next guy." Dale walked out of the alley and disappeared around the corner.

Dean stumbled back until he hit the brick wall up one side of the alley. Then his knees did give out and he slowly sank down, oblivious of the wall scraping his back. _I am a jerk,_ he thought dully. _And an asshole._ Drawing a hand over his face, he gave a trembling sigh. _And I guess I can kiss away any chance of actually rebuilding even being brothers with Sam._

It was the last thought that finally brought the tears.

Sam lay on his bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling. He couldn't process how he was feeling, couldn't bring his usually terrific analytical skills to bear on the morass of his own emotions. There was so much pain and anger and sadness tangled together, jealousy and stifled lust, and just...hurt. Hurt that Dean wouldn't talk to him, work on their relationship, admit that he loved Sam, wanted him--what else was the little display in Dean's room he'd walked in on? Dean was actually masturbating as he said Sam's name! It couldn't be more obvious than that. And instead of talking to Sam, Dean had decided to go out and get blown by some asshole twink he didn't even know. Sam hadn't even had a chance to talk to him about what Victor had told him, which was already a hot mess itself.

Tears began leaking from the corners of Sam's eyes and rolling down into his ears. He cursed at the tickly feeling, annoyed both at the sensation and the tears themselves. Swinging his legs off the bed, he sat up and buried his face in his hands. _What the fuck...what do I do now? Leave? And go where? Stay? And do what? How are we supposed to even work together, much less be brothers?_

Sam knuckled his eyes, drawing in deep, harsh breaths as he fought to control himself. He got up and went down the hall to the bathroom, running the cold water and splashing it over his face and arms. The shock of the water helped break the anguished loops of emotion running in his head, leaving him chilled but calmer. His breathing slowed and his chest began to relax as he toweled himself off.

 _I lived without him for three years in California...I can live without him when he's right here. He's not my lover anymore, he's just my brother. I can do this._ A fresh wave of loss swept over him, but he gritted his teeth and slammed his hand down on the sink. _No! I can do this!_ He shook himself vigorously before opening the door into the hallway.

Dean was standing in the living room. He wouldn't--or couldn't--look Sam in the face, eyes darting around the room and out the window instead. His hands were jammed into his front pockets, and his mouth was tense, that little muscle on the side of his jaw jumping.

"Don't say anything," Sam said quickly before Dean could speak. "You're a grown man--of course you're free to do whatever you want. I had no business looking for you or interrupting you." Dean's mouth opened, and Sam raised his hand. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I apologize. Done." Dean's mouth closed slowly, and Sam struggled to maintain his illusion of calmness. "I'm very tired, and tomorrow is an early morning. I'm going to bed, but I'll be up to help with the morning rush." It was killing him to think he'd never kiss that full mouth again, never burrow a cold nose into that warm neck, pillow his head on those broad shoulders. Never run his hands over that perfect freckled skin, or feel those capable, knowing fingers moving over his body.

Despite all his years away, this moment held a finality that even Sam's departure for California never had. Somehow in all his time at college, there apparently had been a tiny part of Sam that had hoped for a true reunion; but that hope, that little piece deep inside, was now squashed.

"Good night." The words just barely made it out of Sam's mouth before he turned away, almost ran to his room and shut the door, collapsing on his bed and stuffing a fist in his mouth to conceal the sobs wracking his body.

Dean hadn't thought he'd sleep at all that night, but it seemed like the exhaustion of last's night's emotional storm did the trick. He woke up at his usual 4:00, throwing on clothes after a quick clean-up and brushing of his teeth. As he went downstairs, he though anew that at least he didn't have to worry about coffee and breakfast before work. He started the first big urn brewing, then threw in some pastries he'd set up yesterday to bake. Muffins and other goodies were unwrapped and put into the case, by which time he could pull a cup of coffee and sit for five minutes to eat.

Sam emerged shortly, pulling on a clean apron and immediately setting to work himself. He set up the cooling racks for Dean, put the register drawer in, checked that tables and chairs were clean. He filled the coffee stand with sugar and sugar alternatives, utensils, lids, napkins, and so forth. He went down the line checking cream and milk supplies, and starting the smaller urns.

They never exchanged a word beyond Sam's gruff "Good morning" and Dean's nod in return. Dean wanted to take a goddamn slicing knife and just stab himself with it.

Just before six, Jo came in, all blonde cheerfulness and chatter. Within ten minutes she'd picked up on the grim atmosphere and quieted down, and Dean caught the curious glances she sent both his way and Sam's. Then it was time to open the doors, and nothing mattered for the next three hours but keeping up.

By nine-thirty, business was slowing down, plus Andy had come in at 7:30. Jo came into the back to restock muffins and coffeecakes, empty trays in hand. She placed the new treats carefully on fresh wax paper, glancing again and again at Dean until he threw down his mixing spoon and said, "What?" a little harsher than he'd meant to.

"Jesus, Dean. What's up? You kinda look like hell. Rough night?" She crossed her arms and stared at him steadily. He ignored her, rounding up spices and jams for a fresh batch of danishes. "Dean Winchester, you look me in the eye and tell me you're okay, and I'll leave you alone."

He looked up, eyes steadfastly fixed on her blue ones, and growled out, "I'm fine, Joanna _Beth_." He knew how much she hated her middle name, and sure enough, her lower lip pooched out in a pout as she flounced from the kitchen. The door no sooner swung shut behind her than he exhaled heavily, his hands on the stainless steel table holding him up. "This has got to get better," he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them, Sam stood there, face impassive. "We need more dark roast beans, and the croissants are almost gone." He crossed his arms over his chest, his posture stiff and uncomfortable.

"Yeah," answered Dean. "Sure thing." He shoved a basket of plain and chocolate croissants at his brother before going into the alcove where he kept the coffee beans. Metal shelving held the various air-tight, glass coffee bean crocks, each one filled with a different bean. He grabbed the dark roast crock and practically threw it at Sam, who caught it unfazed. "Have at it, dude."

Sam's face flickered between annoyance and something darker that Dean couldn't identify. "Thanks," he said in a strained voice, and Dean wanted nothing so much as to throw his arms around Sam, hug him and apologize to him and tell him--

Nothing. Dean was alone in the kitchen, with only the swinging door leaving proof that someone else had been there.

By mid-afternoon, it was getting slow enough to clean up, stock up, get things ready for the morning. Dean was wiping down the kitchen while Sam, Ellen, and Andy took care of the front, when Victor stuck his head in the door. "They said you were back here. Got a minute?"

"Sure, Vic, come on in. What's up?" Dean threw his towel and apron into the laundry hamper and motioned Victor to enter.

"I didn't know if Sam got to tell you about last night, after you left the diner. I didn't say much to him, just chatted a bit, because you both need to be present." Victor's dark eyes softened. "I am so sorry to dredge all this shit back up, but it can't be helped."

Dean debated telling Victor that Sam hadn't said anything because he'd caught Dean getting sucked off in an alleyway, and how that wouldn't have been a big deal except that they were lovers before Sam went off to college, but he figured that wouldn't go down well. So he simply shook his head and said, "No, we didn't get to talk about anything last night, and today was a madhouse. What's up?"

Victor sighed and said, "We really need to sit down and talk. How about I buy you a beer in a little while?"

Tension started spooling up Dean's spine, but he forced himself to nod. "Sure thing. Around six? At the Pierpont?"

"You got it. I'll tell Sam on my way out." Victor left before Dean heard the "Sam" part. Sam had to be there? Fuck! He hadn't realized that.

 _Well, this day is just getting better all the time,_ Dean thought bitterly to himself. He left locking up to Ellen, going upstairs to grab a shower and an hour's nap before it was time to meet Victor.

And Sam.

  
Dean walked into the Pierpont, feeling eager for a beer but apprehensive about the meeting. Victor was already seated in a booth on the side wall, and as soon as he saw Dean, he waved for the waitress. Dean slid into the seat across from him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hey, man, how ya doing?"

"Doing okay." Victor smiled and nodded. Then his eyes cut back to the door, and he waved again. Dean tried to appear normal as he briefly nodded to Sam, who seemed to tower over the booth when he joined them. Sam fidgeted a moment--unsure of which seat to take, Dean surmised--but then he sat down next to Dean. Dean scootched over to allow his brother more room, and if it helped him to avoid the enormous wall of warmth that was Sam Winchester, well, that was fine too.

The server reappeared with a pitcher of beer and three frosted mugs, followed by a second server carrying a tray laden with a double basket of hot wings, celery sticks, a bowl of blue cheese dressing, a loaf of cheesy garlic bread, fried pickles, three plates, and a pile of napkins. The scent of food made Dean's stomach rumble just as Sam's did likewise, and he couldn't help chuckling with the other men. "Dig in," said Victor, waving a hand. "No talking until the second beer."

They all ate hungrily, washing it down with deep swallows of beer in a companionable silence, broken only by munching and sounds of approval. The bread was decimated, the wings reduced to a pile of bones and scraps, and they were nibbling at the remaining pickles as Victor poured another round. The waitress came by to clear the dishes and drop off little wet-nap packages; it took three to clean the buffalo hot sauce off Dean's fingers. They sat back, stomachs content and the beer taking the edges off. Dean could almost forget why they were there, it was so pleasant.

"Well, boys," Victor finally said. "That hit the spot and then some." He raised his mug and they all toasted, Dean glancing at Sam's face and relieved to see his brother smile. They drank and put their mugs down. Victor's face grew solemn, and he said, "Let's talk. Rather, let me talk. Dean, I started to tell Sam about this last night, but I wanted you there too, so I tabled it." He shook his head. "I'm afraid it's got to be done, so sit tight."

He settled himself in the booth, and Dean would have sat back as well except for the tension thrumming inside him. He knew from last night that this would be about his mother's murder, and he resolved to stick it out. Dean glanced at Sam and saw how stern his face was, but that his fingers were lightly drumming on his lap, telegraphing his anxiety. Facing Victor again, Dean said gruffly, "Go ahead, Vic. Tell us."

Victor nodded and began. "Okay. Your mother, Mary Winchester, was killed 20 years ago. The perp set fire to the empty building she was killed in as an effort to disguise her death. That was a failure, as the fire was poorly set and did little to hide the manner in which she died, as well as evidence of the killer's identity."

Dean's hand trembled as he raised his mug and drank. The cool beer was refreshing, but at the same time, the food in his belly bubbled uncomfortably. Victor looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and he nodded brusquely. "Go on," he growled. "Get it all over with."

Victor looked at him with sympathy. "I'm so sorry to drag this all up," he said softly. "I wouldn't if I didn't have to." His full mouth turned down at the corners, casting the planes of his face into a sorrowful look.

"Yeah, Victor, we understand," said Sam, almost startling Dean by speaking. "Go ahead." His face was pale now, but his hands had stilled, now clasped together on his lap below the table.

"I don't know if your father ever told you--I know you boys were so young, and he went on the road shortly thereafter--but the police did catch the killer." Dean couldn't restrain a small gasp, his eyes widening as he stared at Victor in shock.

" _What?_ " Sam exclaimed. "I never knew that! Dean? Did you know?" He turned hurt eyes on Dean, wounding him even as he struggled to deal with his own emotions at hearing this news. Dean wanted to take Sam in his arms like when he was little, reassure him everything was all right--Dad was fine, they were safe, motel rooms were an adventure, snacks for dinner were fun. Seeing Sam's accusatory face, his rigid body...Dean knew he didn't dare.

"I didn't know, Sam. Dad never told me." He could barely get the words out. "I would never have kept something like that from you. Never."

Sam softened, the tension leaving his face, although his skin was still pale. "I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't have, I just...I never expected that." He wiped his face with one hand and turned his attention back to Victor. "I'm sorry. Please, go on."

Dean saw Sam's fingers plucking at his jeans and, without even thinking about what he was doing, reached one hand out, covering Sam's with his own. Fuck everything else, he was still Sam's big brother, and the intrinsic need to take care of his little brother held strong. "I got you, Sammy," he murmured, and while Sam didn't reply, his own fingers wrapped around Dean's in thanks.

Victor pretended he was busy fiddling with a napkin while the Winchesters digested the news. Clearing his throat, he spoke again. "There was nothing actively homicidal or planned about Mary's death. She was killed by a homeless man, a schizophrenic squatting in the neighborhood. Apparently he saw you, Dean, playing in the park with your mother. You fit right into his fantasy, where your role was to save the world from the Anti-Christ. You were, in his words, the Sword of Michael, destined to slay Lucifer, the fallen angel. He decided to take you away, keep you safe, until you were old enough to take that position. The day he went to take you, Mary fought him off, of course. She wrestled you away from him, but the man--Zachariah, he called himself--attacked her so he could grab you again. Only, he hit her with a heavy piece of wood and...he killed her." He stopped again, waving at the waitress. "Could we have some glasses of ice water, please?"

Dean swallowed hard, willing himself not to throw up. It all sounded like a nightmare, this tale of a crazy, homeless man killing his mother. He couldn't even look at Sam, fearful of his brother's reaction, but his hand on Sam's was clenched so tight it was beginning to ache. Sam said nothing about the pain his hand must have been feeling.

"Guys, I hate to do this to you." Victor took a gulp of ice water as the server placed three glasses down. "We're almost at the end, okay?" He apparently took their silence for assent, plunging ahead. "The fire was simply a means to try and disguise what happened. He had it together enough to realize she was dead and he'd be arrested, so he set the fire and ran away. You, Dean, had run away as soon as you were free, hightailed it to Ellen Harvelle's place; you told her that your mother was attacked and hurt, so the police arrived there very quickly. Because of being on the scene so promptly, and the ineptitude of the crime itself, they caught Zachariah within a few days. He's been institutionalized ever since."

"Excuse me," said Sam abruptly, getting up from the table and walking to the men's room. Dean watched him, seeing how stiff his gait was and knowing it meant Sam was keeping iron control of himself, barely keeping it together.

"Jesus, Dean, this has to be agonizing. You were so little." Victor shook his head. "Are you okay? Is Sam?"

"No, and I don't know. He doesn't remember anything, of course, he was just a baby. I know you aren't doing this by choice, Victor. Soon as he gets back, let's just finish hearing what you have to say and call it a night, okay? Been a tough couple of days already." Dean scratched an eyebrow and then rubbed the back of his neck. "Think we could use something stronger now," he said, pushing the water away.

"You got it," said Victor, getting up and going to the bar. Just as he returned holding three double shots of whiskey, Sam came back from the men's room, still pale but composed. Dean looked at him questioningly, but Sam ignored his concerned look and simply sat down. Dean felt a moment of hurt; a pain that was immediately assuaged when Sam took hold of his hand underneath the table again, wrapping his fingers tightly around Dean's.

Victor spoke softly as he raised his glass. "Gentlemen...to your mother." Sam and Dean picked up their glasses and all three men drained them. Dean closed his eyes in appreciation as the fiery liquid slid down his throat. Victor had gotten the good stuff, and even as it burned, it was smooth and rich.

"Okay, Victor." Sam spoke at last. "I'm assuming we went over past history for a reason other than for the laughs. What's happened to bring this all back up?"

Dean looked admiringly at Sam. He himself had gotten so lost in the retelling, combined with the wisps of memory from that day still lurking in the obscure corners of his mind, that he'd completely forgotten that Victor was telling them this for a reason. Sam, though, had stayed on point. _No way this guy cheated at college,_ he thought. _He'd never need to. There's more to that story._

Victor nodded. "You're absolutely right, Sam. Something has come up." He sipped his ice water, carefully placing the glass directly onto the ring of condensation it had left on the table's smooth surface before looking at them both. "Last week, Zachariah was released from the Blue Earth Sanitarium. He's a free man."


	7. And Light Remaining after Thunder

Sam lay in bed, once again staring at the ceiling. This time, sleep eluded him while his brain struggled to comprehend Victor's bombshell.

_Zachariah had been released._

What did that even mean to them? His crime was so long ago--the angry, frightened flailings of a schizophrenic. Sam felt confused, angry; grief-stricken anew for a mother he'd never known. He'd had some incredible mother figures in his life that he'd be eternally grateful for: Ellen Harvelle, Missouri Mosely. A couple of foster mothers in their past had tried hard to really take care of the Winchester boys. And Dean...Dean had been big brother and mother both, always making sure Sam was fed, clothed, had his school supplies and books. Dean had stood up to anyone and everyone in order to make sure Sam was taken care of properly.

Thoughts of Dean muddied Sam's thoughts even further. Brother. Caretaker. Lover. Well, he didn't need a caretaker anymore, but he sure needed his brother. And he wanted his lover, but he didn't see how they could get through the swamp of anger and unresolved issues that lay between them.

And maybe they shouldn't. Maybe this was the universe saying, stop that, y'all.

Too bad his heart, mind, and dick were not with the program.

Victor sat in his living room, the only light coming from his television as "Modern Family" cavorted silently across the screen. A tumbler of whiskey--not as good as the Johnny Walker Blue Label they'd toasted with at the bar, but smooth enough--rested on the arm of his couch, his fingers balancing it casually. Cam and Mitchell were having one of their silly spats, but Victor's eyes saw none of it. Instead, he saw the Winchester's stricken faces, the replaying of their grief and loss all over again, refreshed after decades. And he'd been the one to cause it.

He took a swallow, his eyes refocusing on the TV. Cam and Mitchell had ended their fight and were making up, exuding love and forgiveness. Victor had a couple of gay friends, but no one in a long-term relationship. Yet something caught his eye, some aspect of Cam and Mitchell's faces that looked...familiar. He leaned forward, trying to think where he'd seen a look like that, a look of love and caring, maybe not as blatant as portrayed here, but something similar...

He nearly dropped his glass when it clicked into place. Dean's face as he looked at Sam in the midst of the revelation about Zachariah, worried and loving.

And Sam, when he glanced at Dean, seeking comfort. Their hands, clasped together under the table. At the time, he'd thought, _brotherly comfort in the face of a great trial_.

But he realized now that it was so much more than that.

Hallowed Grounds opened on time the next morning, but mostly due to Ellen's efforts to keep the boys on track. She took one look at their haggard faces and didn't even ask what was wrong, concentrating instead on simply keeping them moving. Dean moved around in the back like an automaton, mechanically baking his simplest offerings: corn muffins, blueberry muffins, cinnamon streusel coffeecake, biscuits. Sam took orders and made coffees, teas, and hot chocolates impassively, his eyes haunted, his mouth downturned over a set chin. No smiles, no joking, barely a muttered word exchanged with customers and his co-workers alike. She watched him as she worked, wondering what train had hit them and resolving to pin at least one of them down after morning rush to wheedle it out of them.

She managed to trap both of them in the walk-in, Sam fetching a milk refill and Dean grabbing more butter. She grabbed them each by an ear and steered them to stools by Dean's baking table, pushing them down to sit. Standing in front of them with arms crossed authoritatively, she said firmly, "Out with it. You two are good for nothing today, and look like someone stomped on your toes besides. What's up?"

Sam stared at her like a hurt puppy, while Dean crossed his arms back and clenched his jaw. "Nothing that's anything of your business, Ellen. Are we done here?"

"No! No, we are not, mister. You are not too old or too big for me to smack that behind of yours." She looked at him as threateningly as she could, but it was undermined when Sam actually snickered. "What? I can still whup your ass too!"

Sam spluttered as he tried to regain control of himself, but finally he gave up and actually giggled as he said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help picturing you with Dean over your knee...it was too funny!" She felt the corners of her mouth start twitching as she fought to keep from laughing out loud, and even Dean's face relaxed into a reluctant grin.

"Well, that's better! I thought you two had been replaced by the Borg! Now, what gives, boys? Get it out." Ellen leaned back against the counter, happy to see her boys smiling again.

Sam and Dean sobered up and exchanged serious looks before facing her again. Dean said flatly, "The bastard who killed our mom and set the fire is out of the nuthouse."

Stunned was an understatement for her reaction. Ellen felt the floor tilt under her feet, and she grabbed the table next to her for balance. A buzzing rose in her ears and she wondered distractedly where the bees had come in from. Then Sam was at her side, gripping her arm and soothing her. "It's okay, Ellen. Here, sit..." and he pushed her down onto another stool. Dean pressed a water bottle into her hand, and she drank thankfully, the cool water helping to re-ground herself.

"What? How did that happen?" Ellen put the water bottle down and looked intently at the boys. "How do you even know that? Maybe you're wrong." _Please be wrong...please leave that horror in the past..._

Sam answered gravely, "Victor Henriksen told us last night. He felt we should know." He looked at Dean, then at the floor, wringing his fingers.

"Yeah, apparently ol' Zach has been the model patient for the last several years, so they decided he's no longer a threat to society and let him loose. Of course, who really knows, right?" Dean looked at her with despair, and she suddenly saw the little boy who came running to her that day, blond mop bouncing and red cheeks streaked with tears. _Mommy's hurt! Mommy's hurt!_ he'd screamed as he threw himself at her knees, wrapping around them like a little octopus. _It's all red, and the man--the man tried to take me, and Mommy fought him, but now..._ Dean was all grown up now, but she saw that hurt little boy in those wide green eyes, recognized the tears he was fighting back.

"It's gonna be okay," she heard herself murmur as she reached out and drew them into her embrace. "Don't you worry, boys, everything is going to be all right." And she held them close as they hid their faces in her neck and shoulders, keeping them safe as they finally broke, their bodies shaking against hers.

 

After the shocking revelation from Victor, and the emotional moment with Ellen, a calmness settled between the brothers. A detente of sorts; Sam never mentioned Dean's sordid alley encounter, or the embarrassing moment in his bedroom, and Dean let his past resentments lie quietly. Instead, they turned as one to take care of business at Hallowed Grounds. Dean threw himself into baking--expanding his repertoire, trying new ingredients and recipes. Sam continued working as a barista, but apparently he'd been thinking along other lines as well. He came to Dean one afternoon a few weeks later with a notebook in hand, asking if they could sit down for a conference.

They settled down with fresh coffee, and Sam laid out his thoughts.

"I think you are doing an amazing job here, Dean. Your business is doing great, you have a large regular clientele, and your baking is fantastic. The new stuff like those poppyseed cream cheese things? They were just terrific, and the muffins and crumbles fly out the door."

Dean felt a pardonable pride. His brother was a fussy eater, and if Sam was raving like this, Dean knew he'd done well.

"I have two suggestions, and they are entirely up to you. You've built this place from scratch, and in no way am I criticizing what you've done here. My goal is to help it do even better." Sam's hazel eyes looked frankly into Dean's, and Dean nodded.

"I gotcha. No criticism taken. Go ahead, bro, I'm listening."

Sam breathed deep, and Dean realized he must have been really nervous about bringing his ideas to Dean. He felt a pang--Sam was still his brother, and Dean regretted that things were so strained between them. Granted, there was some ground to be covered at some point-- _Stanford_ echoed in the back of his head, as did the tattered remnants of their more intimate relationship--but the recent stresses had pushed all of that into the background for now. They needed to unite, to feel they were a team, and their recent shared labor had been a great way to start. He was more than willing to see what Sam had to offer.

"Okay, well...first, you are a really talented baker. However, that doesn't necessarily mean the business side of the shop is your forte. I noticed a lot of bills floating around your desk, and your operating system is at _least_ two major updates behind. Plus, I looked into it, and there are some great programs out there that could help with figuring out your costs, taking care of billing, and making sure you're making the profit you should be, with all the effort you put in. Now, I wasn't a business student, but I do know computers pretty well. I'd be happy to update you--heck, you might actually just need a whole new computer by now, something faster and with more memory--and set up one of these programs. I could also take some of the billing load off your shoulders. I don't bake--you do. If we can streamline some of this, it should even be affordable enough to hire at least one new part-timer, maybe even one full-time and one part-time person."

Dean stared at his little brother. Every word made perfect sense to the point Dean wondered how he'd never thought of it himself. Evidently Sam caught his train of thought, smiling and flashing those gorgeous dimples which derailed Dean's train of thought into the gutter for a split second.

"Dean, you're the one in the trenches. You're preoccupied with getting stuff baked, getting product out there, serving your customers, and so on. It's hard for you to step back often and see other things. I'm just the new barista-boy, so that's why I noticed this stuff." Sam gave him a thumbs up. "Clearly what you're doing is working. I just want to make it a little easier for you."

Dean cleared his throat and resolutely shoved any thought of dimples from his mind. "Sam, that sounds awesome. Go for it. That computer is a pain in my ass, it's always freezing and crapping out on me, which is why I call Charlie all the time. She's been nagging me to do something about it, but frankly it seemed like just another chore for me to take care of. Go ahead and get me a new one and set me up, man. She'll love ya for it." They clinked coffee mugs. Sam looked pleased at Dean's praise, but Dean could tell he had more on his mind still. "So is that it, or did you have something else you wanted to suggest, Mr. Business Mogul?"

Sam laughed and shook his head. "No mogul, just looking at things with a fresh perspective. This next thing is kind of a bigger jump, so if you don't like the idea, don't hesitate to say so. It kinda hit me one day as we were wrapping up after the early afternoon wave, and I've been kicking it around the last few days."

"Dude, you are one for one, so hit me." Dean settled back on his side of the booth, pleased about the first suggestion and eager to hear more from his brainy little brother.

"Okay. Well, obviously, you do a huge morning business. There's a little lull mid-morning, and then you have a second wave because people need fresh coffee and, of course, buy your delicious treats for a snack." Sam grinned at him. "I think I've gained five pounds already!"

Dean chuckled. "You can stand it, you came back too skinny!"

Sam's smile faltered. "Yeah, well, a lot of that was stress. I saw myself crashing and burning, and I couldn't do squat about it. Kinda takes you off your feed."

Dean felt bad for bringing up unhappy memories. He leaned forward and placed a hand over Sam's clenched one. "Hey...not to worry. One, we'll figure out what happened at some point. And two?" He looked hard into Sam's face, projecting all the confidence he could. "I know--I _know_ \--you never fucking cheated in your whole fucking life. So don't be worrying that I don't trust you or any shit like that, okay?" He pressed Sam's hand before sitting back again. "Now, go on, Mr. Entrepreneur. What are you cooking up here?"

"Okay, well--what if we expanded the menu a little?" Dean saw Sam's eyes studying him intently as he explained his idea. "Like some sandwiches, wraps, maybe salads? A soup of the day? Nothing big, no menu of a thousand choices, but two or three things fresh daily that could be ordered as either a sandwich or a wrap, and then maybe a salad and a soup of the day? Still keeping it a limited selection, but sandwiches on your croissants, or a whole-grain wrap. And soup--we have a crock with one kind every day, and same thing with a salad." He frowned. "Hm, now as I say it, I realize salad is a whole other type of prep and all. Maybe we can contract out for it? Have it brought in from another little business like us? We could even trade--so many salads a week for a muffin or bread exchange! Give you a new market to explore, and support a fellow small businessman!" Now he was getting excited, and Dean saw a sparkle come into those captivating eyes.

It only took a few minutes for Dean to see the advantages of Sam's proposition. "Wow, that is really a great idea. I admit, I've got to think about it and what it would take to make it work, but off the top of my head, I gotta say I love it!" Dean got up and pulled his brother up as well, tugging him into a hug. "This is a fantastic idea. Both of them are. I say get started on the computer stuff right away, and let's see what the other stuff would entail and make a plan. Definitely one more person, like you said, just to handle that side during lunch and early afternoon. Maybe even until four or five in the afternoon." He walked to the front and switched off the fluorescent lights spelling out Hallowed Grounds. "Come on, turn off the kitchen lights and I'll buy you a beer, little brother."

They exited the building still chatting briskly, completely unaware of the man watching them from the alley across the street.

The fluorescent letters of Hallowed Grounds glowed brightly, casting interesting little bits of colored shadow on the sidewalk. They danced before his eyes like little jewels. _Rubies,_ he thought, _because there are no virtuous women anymore. All vessels for sin._ He ignored the blasphemy of the coffee shop's name for now.

It was getting chilly, and suddenly the lights inside the shop flipped off, leaving the big front window of the coffee shop dark. There were some people moving inside still for a few minutes--he could see them all shadowy, backlit from the interior lights--but then it was empty. He shivered from his vantage point, the alley across the street, wrapping his cheap, worn overcoat around him more closely.

 _Time to go for now,_ he thought. _Time for rest, for prayers, for now I lay me. Pray for guidance, pray for strength, pray for a vision. Please, God, give me strength and your blessing, ever and ever amen._

The shop door opened, and two young men came out. An errant setting sunbeam fell on them, and he gasped. _It's him! It's him! Thank you, God, for leading me back here!_ He clasped his hands in silent ecstasy. _I knew there had to be a reason to return! God's plan is great!_

The setting sun glinted on Dean Winchester's head, accenting the gold highlights in his hair. The other young man stayed in shadow, dark hair shrouding his face. The dark-haired man turned and Zachariah caught a glimpse of striking bone structure, high cheekbones and tilted dark eyes. _It can't be! Oh Lord, is it...?_ He fell to his knees in the alley, watching the two men walk away. _Thank you, Lord. You return me to the golden child, the Vessel, the Sword of Michael again. And you bless me with the Dark Star as well, the Abomination. I can bring you the Gift at the same time I dispense with the Boy King. Thank you, Lord, your gifts are bountiful and your wisdom immeasurable!_

Zachariah cackled in joy, bobbing his head over folded hands before turning and shuffling off down the alley, away from his destiny for the moment. He'd be back. Yes, yes, he'd be back, and God would smile on him again.

Sam went out a couple of days later to buy a laptop for Dean. They agreed it would be more efficient and make more sense to be able to work on some of the office work at home in the evening, instead of being stuck in the tiny office in the back of Hallowed Grounds. He'd even consulted Charlie first, wanting to get her recommendation as to what model would be best, and where to get a fair price. She sent him to AP Computers, armed with the make, model, and price he should look for.

The computer store was small, but there were several laptops on display. Sam browsed around for a moment before a young man with black, spiky hair and caramel colored skin approached him. "May I help you?" he asked Sam. "We have several models available--do you know what you'd like?"

"Yeah, I was instructed to get this one," said Sam, and he handed over the paper with the model information. "Our, um, IT person said this was the best one for our needs."

"Oh, that's an excellent choice!" replied the young man with a smile, who proceeded to babble specs and facts far beyond Sam's comprehension. He led Sam to a display pedestal and gestured at the laptop sitting on it. "Here, take a look. All the displays are running and online so feel free to have a little test drive. My name's Kevin, I'll be right over here if you have any more questions." He nodded shyly at Sam and returned to a desk strewn with a mix of tech manuals and brightly colored comics.

Sam smiled at the eclectic mixture of reading material before examining the laptop. It seemed to be just what Charlie had specified, so it only took him about ten minutes before he said, "I'll take it."

"Great! Let me get you one from the back." Kevin hopped up and disappeared for a moment, returning with a big white box. Sam paid for the computer with the Hallowed Ground credit card, and Kevin commented, "Oh, the coffee shop two blocks down? I love their stuff! Are you the baker?"

"No, I work there, but my brother Dean is the baker. His computer is ridiculously out of date, and Charlie - our IT person - and I persuaded him to finally get a new one." He went on to ask Kevin, "Hey, I know there are accounting programs that are good for small businesses--you know, track costs, help with bills, stuff like that. Could you recommend one?"

"Sure! I'd be happy to help--feel free to pay me in muffins!" Kevin said with a big smile.

"You got it, Kevin! I'm Sam. Come by the shop and I'll see you get your muffins," Sam said as he grinned. "Plus, our IT person runs the local comic shop, so maybe i can get you a discount there."

Kevin practically squealed in delight. "You mean Moondor Comics? I love that shop! Who is your friend there?"

"Charlie--the young woman with red hair. She owns the place, and she gives us technical advice when Dean breaks the computer. I'm sure she'd love to meet you and gab geek."

They concluded the sale briskly, and Sam left the shop with a smile, as he imagined Kevin and Charlie meeting in a simultaneous nerdgasm.

"Sam, this is perfect!" Charlie petted the new laptop. "You guys are going to be amazed how much better and faster this baby runs." Sam told her about Kevin, and she said, "Sure! Bring him in and he gets an introductory twenty percent discount for helping you so much."

She worked on setting up the laptop as Dean wrapped up the day's leftover pastries and breads. Dean was good at not over-baking much, but there was always a little left in the cases. Sam watched him work with a growing curiosity. He'd seen Dean do this before, but hadn't thought to ask where the food went.

"Hey, Dean--what do you do with that? Are you wrapping it up just to throw it out?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope. I take it to the kitchen slash shelter a couple of blocks away." He dropped the bag in his hand and stared at Sam. "Jesus, Sam, I can't believe I forgot to tell you about it. It's been so busy since you got back, it totally slipped my mind!"

Sam tilted his head, looking at Dean with befuddlement. "Tell me what? That there's a shelter near-by?"

"No, man. Who _runs_ the shelter." Dean gave am an enigmatic half-smile. "You ready?"

"What? Who?" Sam started getting annoyed at Dean's little guessing game, but his annoyance was wiped away by Dean's next words.

"It's Missouri."

Sam bolted out of his seat. "What? Are you shitting me? Missouri _Mosley?_ " The shock made his ears buzz for a moment, and when it cleared Dean was holding his bicep and looking intently at Sam.

"Dude, you okay? I'm sorry for freaking you out like that." Sam nodded and Dean released his arm, leaving a warm spot on Sam's skin and making his heart squeeze tightly for a second. "Yeah, she finally left Children's Services and got funding for a shelter and food kitchen. Anything I have left over, I take there."

He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Come on, grab some stuff here and let's go see her."

That evening, Dean sat in front of the new laptop, nursing a beer as he idly surfed. Getting a laptop had been a smart choice--it was definitely nice to have a computer at home, and it would make keeping up with his billing and paperwork a lot easier. He also wanted to check out the porn availability--like everyone, he knew free porn abounded online--but he'd have to check with Charlie first so that Sam wouldn't see it. He didn't plan to go hog-wild, but a man and his hand had needs.

As he played with his new toy, he thought about the joyful, tearful reunion between Sam and Missouri earlier that day.

No sooner did Sam and Dean walk into the Wooden Spoon than Missouri grabbed the six foot four man in a big hug. Dean thought Sam suddenly looked five again, a little boy clutching one of the few stable people in his tumultuous life. He wrapped his ginormous arms around Missouri and lifted her up until she squealed and threatened him with her own wooden mixing spoon. Dean snickered until she turned and actually walloped his shoulder with said spoon. When Sam pulled back, Dean was positive there were tears in his eyes, but Sam hastily brushed his face with a shirt-sleeve.

They had dinner there; not something Dean did often as the kitchen's resources were always strained, but Missouri insisted. "Dean, I don't see you enough as it is. No way am I letting you and your prodigal brother out without feeding you!" She bustled around getting them plates and making sure they were full, then watched them eat with a smile on her face. "You boys sure grew up big! Got to make sure you get a good, home-cooked meal once in a while."

Sam told her all about college, more details than he'd ever said to Dean, which caused a pretty good-sized pang in his heart. Maybe he'd been so busy being shitty to Sam since he'd returned, he'd never given him a real chance to talk about it. The reason for Sam's return home was sidestepped, but Dean heard about his classes, life in California, and even his former girlfriend.

 _Girlfriend? Sam had had a girlfriend?_ Dean grimaced, prompting a quick, sharp glance from Missouri, but Sam didn't seemed to notice. She'd been blonde, beautiful (of course), and smart (also of course). Sam said he'd broken up with her because he didn't want to try managing a long-distance relationship. Dean felt a little stab of jealousy at hearing the many virtues of Jessica. He made a private resolve to see if that was all that precipitated the break-up, cursing himself for his need to know even if he and Sam were not going to be together.

Brooding over his plate, Dean looked around and noticed a man watching them avidly from a couple of tables away. A ring of wild white hair surrounded a large bald spot, and his protuberant blue eyes jittered between Dean and Sam. The man ate mechanically, shoving bits of food into his mouth, ignoring the scraps that fell to the tray as he watched them.

"Hey, Missouri--who's the old guy over there?" Dean asked softly, shooting his eyes over to the man in question without moving his head. "Looks like he's got a little crush on the Samster here."

Missouri kicked his foot under the table. "A little respect, boy. He's new. Just started coming around last week. I don't know much about him yet; I had a bunch of new people come here from the shelter closing down next town over. Why, is he bothering you?"

Dean shook his head. "Naw, just questioning his taste. Why pick Sam when he could have a stud like me?" Sam and Missouri both groaned, and Sam flicked a noodle that landed on Dean's hand. A food battle might have broken out then and there, but Missouri rapped her spoon on the table. Both men quieted down immediately.

"There, that's better. This is why I always have this with me when you boys are around!" Missouri preened as she brandished her wooden scepter. "Now you two go in the back and help with the dishes!"

As the scene replayed in Dean's head, he wondered about who this Jessica was. Had Sam really been in love with her? Was his move back home really the only reason they'd broken up?

Was Sam really over him once and for all?

Dean's eyes no long saw the computer screen. They were dreaming of Sam's face, his beautiful eyes, his dimpled smile. The tall, lean body that had filled out so much while he'd been away at school. The open, vulnerable way Sam had looked the last time they'd made love before he left. The pain in his face when he'd seen Dean and Dale in the alley. What had that hurt look meant? That he still looked at Dean as his lover? Or just that Dean was a slutty pig?

The heavy opening riff of "Iron Man" woke him from his reverie, and he grabbed his phone. "Dean?" said a dark, rich voice. "It's Victor. Can you come down to the station?"

"Uh, sure. What's up? You arrest Sam for streaking?" He couldn't help snickering.

"No, Dean. There was a fire set nearby, although we've already extinguished it." Victor's voice was devoid of humor, and Dean sobered up. This wasn't Victor over a few beers, this was Detective Henriksen, and he was a man to be taken seriously.

"Okay, sure, we'll be right there. But if it's already--" The dial tone buzzed through the phone. "Oookay then." He shook his head as he put his phone away. Sighing, he got up and went to Sam's bedroom door, knocking on it while he said, "C'mon, Sam, police want to talk to us."

"The police? What about?" Dean could hear the tension under Sam's light tone. They were both on edge after the meeting with Victor the other night, but neither of them commented on it.

He saw the spooked look in Sam's eyes. "You probably jaywalked and they caught you on a traffic cam, dude." He reached over and gently squeezed the back of Sam's neck. "C'mon...it's gonna be nothing, okay?"

Sam nodded, but his fingers jittered on his jeans and his mouth was a tense line as they went down the stairs to the street. They were silent as they got in the Impala and drove to the police station.

The desk sergeant brought them right into Victor's office, a utilitarian space ringed with filing cabinets. A clutter of files spread across his massive wooden desk, jockeying for space with Styrofoam coffee cups and his monitor. He looked tired, the skin under his eyes puffy and purplish, his jawline dulled under a haze of stubble. He waved for them to sit on the chairs across from his desk, ugly pieces that were nonetheless strong and sturdy. Victor leaned back in his desk chair and sighed heavily while Dean perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair and Sam eased down carefully, like the chair was going to give way beneath him.

"I don't know if this actually is anything to be concerned about, but in light of what's happened in the past, I felt I should tell you about it." He rubbed his eyes and sighed again. "There was a fire set near your building. Of course, we're investigating it, but the location of it worried me."

Dean noted how rigidly Sam was sitting. "Where, Victor? Spit it out." He knew the answer was coming before Victor even said it, nerves tingling throughout his body as he waited for Victor's voice.

"A trash bin in the alley behind where Mary was killed," Victor said flatly.

Sam gasped, but Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from Victor. " _What?_ "

Sam asked shakily, "And you think it might be...Zachariah?"

Victor nodded. "We don't know yet, of course, but it can't be ruled out. The coincidence of the location? And the timing of his release? It has to be considered." He looked intently at both men. "And I think you two should be on your guard."

Sam's voice was steadier as he asked, "Why us? What would he want with us?"

"Hopefully, nothing. But he was trying to snatch Dean when Mary was killed, so who knows? Maybe he's still fixated on Dean as the one who'll save the world." Victor rolled his eyes and snickered. "No offense, Dean. You're a great guy and all, but you ain't the latest incarnation of the divine."

Dean snorted and smoothed his shirt-front down with one hand. "I'm not merely divine, Vic, I'm _fantastic,_ you ass." Everyone chuckled, and the tension in the room eased.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's see how fantastic you are next darts match. Winner buys the pitchers." Victor sobered again as he continued speaking. "Frankly, it's hard to predict a loose cannon like Zachariah. He doesn't operate by the rules we're used to. Right now, we just want to cover all of our bases."

"Okay," said Dean. "Consider us forewarned."

They left Victor's office in a subdued mood, driving back home in silence. The Impala purred as Dean maneuvered through the quiet streets. The news hung around them like a thick fog, permeating the air and rendering them speechless. Only when they were back in Dean's apartment, Sam slumped on the couch and Dean popping a beer open in the kitchen, did they speak, and then it was simultaneously.

"Sam, you--"

"Dean, do--"

They stopped and found themselves smiling hesitantly at each other. The tension that had been present since Victor's first words abated a little.

"Okay, well, of course we'll be careful," said Sam. "But damn, do you really think..."

"Dunno," said Dean. "He could be over that whole fantasy. He could be looking for some new little golden boy to save the world. We don't have any real idea. But yeah, let's be careful and let's keep our eyes open." He sat next to Sam on the couch. "We'll be fine, little brother," he said as he gently bounced his fist on Sam's thigh.

Sam looked at the fist on his leg, then at Dean. Dean was utterly shocked at the naked want in Sam's hazel eyes. Sam licked his lips, and Dean had about five seconds to think about what he was going to do if Sam kissed him--


	8. And Light Remaining after Thunder

And then Sam kissed him. Not softly either, not carefully, but firmly and decisively, one hand coming up to slide through Dean's hair and keep his head close. Sam's tongue licked against Dean's mouth, and Dean knew no other reaction but to let him in, the trained response of a thousand kisses before. The kiss went on, gathering intensity by the second, their soft breaths growing louder as they kept going.

Dean's heart didn't know whether it should beat harder or just fucking stop. Sam's mouth--the mouth he'd dreamed of for the last three years, those sweet pink lips that had been in front of him for weeks now--were on his; hot, wet, demanding. He moaned and returned the kiss a hundredfold, silently offering himself to Sam with everything he had. Fuck being pissed; fuck the distance between them; fuck everything but this. Everything in the world right now was condensed to this incredible moment with Sam. Dean felt his heartache and longing assuaged by Sam's hand in his hair, every crack in his kintsugi heart patched with Sam's mouth. Sam's kiss brought Dean's world back into a clarity that had been askew since he'd retrieved Sam from the airport.

They broke apart at the same time, chests heaving, pulling back and puffing warm air on each other's moist lips. Sam's eyes urgently searched Dean's face, seeking reassurance that he hadn't made things worse. Dean likewise studied Sam's face, trying to figure out what was going on in his little brother's head, and what this meant for their nebulous relationship. Neither man moved, frozen on the couch like they were still locked together, despite the few scant inches separating them.

"So...that happened," murmured Dean. He was scared to talk, but even more scared of silence. What if the silence ate this tenuous connection, before they could solidify it? "Sammy? What--what do you want? What are we doing?" He felt his throat tighten at the prospect of losing what he'd just had for a few precious seconds. "It's okay if you don't--"

"Shut up, Dean. The only thing I want is for you to stop doing stupid shit like getting blown in the alley. Don't do that to me again." Sam flicked Dean's cheek with thumb and forefinger, making him yelp from the sting. "I'm not the sharing type."

Dean's head was spinning a bit with this drastic shift in their relationship. They had been so distant since Sam's return, going from cool to cold. Then there'd been the Dale fiasco, full of embarrassment and self-recrimination, and Dean had thought that any relationship at all was over forever. Gradually they'd been managing to work together on the business, using it as a bridge between them, allowing them a way to cross the gulf between them. The sense of being brothers again, becoming partners, had been building slowly, but getting from there to right here was a jump that startled him. "Sam, I just--what brought this on? I mean, I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but you were so mad at me, and now we're playing tonsil hockey. I don't want to screw anything up, so...tell me what's going on?"

Sam sat back a little, resting against the sofa back but keeping hold of Dean's hand, lacing his own long fingers through Dean's. "I was mad all right. Fucking furious. I felt like you pushed me away and then kicked me in the teeth to boot. Jerking off with my name on your lips, then letting that guy blow you right there in the alley. You had to know I'd see, or at least find out about it." He shook his head as he studied their interlocked hands. "It took a little time to deal with that."

Sam took a deep breath before he continued. "I've really been enjoying working with you, though--even though it's your business, we've been acting as equals. You really listened to me and liked my ideas, and it felt so good to be back in sync with you. Then all the stuff Victor told us...well, it took me back, reminded me of when we were more than business partners. No one has ever been there for me like you, Dean. No one has ever loved me like you, and I've never loved anyone the way I love you. You have always been the most important person in my life, and even when I went away, I left my heart here with you. Even when I was with Jessica, I missed you."

He gave a little laugh. "Frankly, I didn't know if we could ever be together again, especially when I got back and you were still so angry with me--dude, don't think I couldn't tell. But all that crap coming back up--Mom's death and everything--reminded me what's important. And what's important, Dean, is you." His eyes were back on Dean's, and the love and sincerity that shone from them struck straight into Dean's heart. "I can't imagine losing you for good. I don't ever want to lose you again, in any way, and if you can see your way to working this through with me, I'd--"

" _Yes,"_ replied Dean breathlessly. "Yes, please." He pulled Sam in tightly, wrapping his arms around his ginormous brother, wanting only to keep him safe and show him how much Dean loved him. "Yes," he whispered into Sam's thick hair. "Dear God, yes."

Tension ran a little high at Hallowed Grounds the next couple of days, but it wasn't tension between the Winchesters. Sam felt wary when he was outside, keeping an eye out for strangers when he took out the trash or walked around anywhere. Inside, however, things were going swimmingly. Business was good, the mood was upbeat, and after the shop closed for the day, Sam and Dean worked on the new computer with Charlie or discussed the plans for the menu expansion.

Sam came in from a visit to Missouri with news for Dean. "Hey, you know how we were thinking of outsourcing the salads? So we wouldn't get bogged down in prep? Well, Missouri said a new organic food place is opening a few blocks away. They're going to have a grocery section, but also some prepared food. She met the new owner at a fund-raiser, says she's a real pistol. Maybe that's who we can barter with--we furnish her with pastries and she handles salads for us."

Dean nodded, excited by this prospect. A new business owner might be open to their idea, wanting to quickly get their name out. "That sounds awesome! Let's see about meeting with her, see what she thinks."

They asked Missouri to contact Pam Barnes, the organic grocer, on their behalf. A meeting was quickly scheduled--Pam was definitely interested. They arranged to meet at the Pierpont at the end of the week; Dean felt that buying her a drink was a neighborly way to begin a business friendship.

Sam and Dean walked into the bar that Thursday, looking around for Pam. Missouri had simply said, "Oh, you'll know her when you see her. She'll be looking for the two of you, all right." Sam and Dean weren't quite sure what the heck that meant. As they looked around the bar, they were only partially surprised to hear their names called out, followed by an enthusiastic, "Over here!" and some energetic waving by a very fit brunette. She'd snagged a back booth, and there was already a pitcher and three frosty mugs waiting.

"Pleased to meet ya," she said warmly, shaking Dean's and then Sam's hand firmly. They all sat down, and Sam took stock of the woman who was indeed, as Missouri said, 'a pistol'. Pam's dark eyes, framed by dramatic arched brows, snapped with energy, and she had a wide, welcoming smile. Short black hair curled around her tanned face, and a sleeveless button-down displayed very well-defined, lean-muscled arms.

"So, boys, I hear that Hallowed Grounds is _the_ coffee shop and bakery in town. And that you might have a proposition for me." She smiled flirtatiously before saying, "You should know, though that I don't swing your way, so I'm afraid a threesome is out." She laughed loudly, and winked at Sam, who felt his cheeks warm in a blush.

Dean choked on a swig of his beer and coughed to clear his throat. "Ah, well, our loss. Actually, the proposition we had was a business one." He went on to outline the bartering idea, presenting both the practical and the marketing possibilities.

"Well, that is damn good thinking," Pam replied, her face serious now as she considered the idea. "Off the top of my head, I gotta say I like it. Let me sleep on it over the weekend and get back to you. Say, next Monday?" Dean looked at Sam, who nodded assent. "All right! Now let's get some food--I hear the wings here are awesome! And tell me everything I need to know about this town. I just moved here and I want all the poop!"

They had just ordered some appetizers and wings when Charlie came in. Sam saw her as she entered, her red hair shining in the lights like a beacon. He waved her over, and she joined them with a smile.

"Hey, guys! How's tricks?" She turned her smile to Pam, and Sam saw her eyes widen. "Um, wow, hi there. I'm Charlie." She stuck her hand out and Pam shook it. Dean and Sam looked at each other in amusement--the immediate attraction was hard to miss. "So, what's going on here? Plotting nefarious schemes? World domination?"

"Not at all," purred Pam, her voice like warm honey. Dean kicked Sam under the table, and Sam barely repressed a snicker. "I'm Pam Barnes. I'm opening an organic grocery and deli over on Turner Street. The boys here and I were just discussing a little business idea." Her voice was sultry as she said, "So very nice to meet you, Charlie. Won't you join us?" Pam slid over to allow room for Charlie to sit, patting the bench next to her.

"Oh, sure, love to." Charlie sat down, glancing at Sam and Dean before staring back at Pam. "That's great, I love organic and it can be hard to find around here. Let me know if there's, um...anything I can do to help you feel comfortable."

Dean just about spit a mouthful of beer out at that, and it was Sam's turn to kick him. "Fuck, Sam! Keep your ginormous feet to yourself, Sasquatch!" Charlie and Pam exchanged startled glances, but then began to chat with each other, ignoring the Winchesters as they became more involved with their own conversation.

"I think we're done here," Dean whispered to Sam, who nodded in agreement. "Hey, ladies, sorry to run out on you, but, uh, Sam and me, we gotta...there's a thing..."

"We have to go," Sam said firmly, pushing Dean out of the booth. "So sorry. Pam, call us and we'll work out the details, and Charlie, see you soon." They left quickly, barely making it outside the bar before they cracked up simultaneously.

"Jesus! Did you see that?" exclaimed Dean. "That wasn't sparks flying, that was spontaneous combustion!"

"Yeah," Sam said with a big smile. "I'm happy for Charlie. She deserves to find someone that makes her happy." He looked at Dean. "So...let's go home. Maybe we can...find something fun to do ourselves."

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and started hustling him down the street. "Maybe we can!"

They hadn't done more than some heavy making out since their recent acknowledgment of their feelings. Dean and Sam hadn't really discussed intimacy, but Sam knew he wasn't ready to fling himself back into sex and all the complications it entailed, and Dean seemed okay with going slowly. While Sam still didn't feel ready for the whole nine yards, he was up _(oh, funny, Sam, you fucking wit you)_ for stepping things up. And there was no time like the present. Watching Charlie and Pam spark together like that had been enough to provoke his own desire for some action with Dean.

They barely made it inside the apartment before he was on Dean, pushing him against the door and kissing him, pressing his entire body firmly against Dean's. Feeling the electric pleasure of his erection against his brother's hip; feeling Dean's cock poking against his own thigh. He moaned as Dean met his kiss with equal power, equal desire, and they ground against each other, creating a loop of arousal that sent Sam's conscious mind sky-rocketing and left only his lizard-brain in charge.

"Jeans. Now," Sam ordered as he pulled his hips away just far enough to allow Dean to obey. Dean's fingers flew as he yanked his fly open and shoved his jeans and boxers down. His cock, already fat and heavy, bounced free, and Sam's mouth fucking watered like a dog faced with a juicy bone. He dropped to his knees and took it in his mouth, sucking on it avidly and making Dean groan loudly.

Oh god, no one had ever tasted like Dean. He'd only blown a few guys in his lifetime, and none of them compared to Dean. Then there'd been some girls, including Jessica; she'd been so sweet, like candy, but pussies were so different he couldn't even compare them to this. This steel cloaked in velvet, the heat of Dean's blood fueling his erection, the fat, spongy head trying to fuck into Sam's throat. Sam grabbed Dean's ass and pulled him closer; he could feel Dean trying to hold back, and he wasn't having any of that. He _wanted_ \--wanted his throat filled, wanted to hear how wrecked he'd sound afterward, wanted to be the one making Dean let go all the way. Not some asshole sucking him off in an alley. Not some chick Dean picked up in a bar, with fat tits and pink lip gloss. Just Sam. _Only_ Sam.

He pulled off for a second, making Dean whine in protest, and said hoarsely, "Do it." He sucked Dean back down, squeezing his cheeks with spread hands, opening his throat to Dean's cock as it thrust in. Dean yelled as Sam took it down, burrowing his nose into the ginger pubes at the root of Dean's cock, swallowing around it until he couldn't fucking breathe. Sam gasped and pulled off, gulping air before diving down again, ignoring the saliva and pre-come that slicked his chin and lips. He looked up through the hair hanging in his eyes, saw Dean looking at him with pupils blown so large that only a thin rim of green remained. Dean's taste filled his mouth, and Sam's cock complained achingly in his jeans for attention, but he ignored it. This was reclaiming what was his, re-marking his territory; no one was ever going to do this to Dean again, give Dean what Sam gave him. Take him through the roof with the orgasm Sam was going to pull out of him, and then bring him back down safely.

Sam swallowed around Dean's dick again as he reached up and pinched both of Dean's nipples, and Dean's head thudded against the door as he shot down Sam's throat. Sam closed his eyes and reveled in the sensation of Dean's cock pulsing strongly in his mouth until it overflowed with come, spilling messily out the corners of his mouth and over his chin. He barely got his hand in his own pants and tugged before he too was coming, shooting hard into his boxers, Dean's dick falling from his mouth as he cried out and convulsed. Dean's hand grabbed his hair and kept him upright; Sam opened eyes still filled with sparks and saw Dean's plush lips open as he gulped for air while he was still coming down from his explosive climax. The sight of those pink lips, swollen and shiny, forced another spasm from Sam's cock, a final dribble of come sliding down his balls.

Dean let go of Sam's hair and slid down the door. He pulled Sam into his arms; they lay panting together, their breathing settling as their hearts slowed to normal rhythm. Sam's head rested against Dean's chest, and he listened to the thud of Dean's heart gradually stop pounding like a racehorse. Dean's heat burned through his shirt, dampened by sweat, and Sam took in deep, calming breaths of his brother's salty scent. Dean carded his fingers through Sam's hair, separating the damp strands and soothing him through his aftershocks. They sat there for a long time while they luxuriated in just being together.

Zachariah saw them almost running down the sidewalk from the bar. It didn't look like they were running in fear; instead, they looked...happy. Smiling, shoving at each other, laughing like kids as they went into the door that undoubtedly led to the apartment over the bakery. He was momentarily puzzled by their behavior--did they not understand their destinies? Were they unaware that one of them was blessed and the other damned?

He continued staring at the building, pondering the matter. Perhaps they _didn't_ know. Perhaps the Lord had not seen fit to reveal their destinies to them. Perhaps...oh, perhaps He was leaving that up to _Zachariah._ Maybe his mission went beyond simply bringing the Vessel to Michael, and even dispatching the Morning Star to Hell. The Lord could be entrusting the revelation to Zachariah, his most humble and devoted servant, as a reward. Zachariah had suffered long in the cold, white place, stuffed with foul, soul-altering drugs and dealing with infidels and non-believers, but if this was his reward? To lead the two opposing forces to their rightful destiny and serve it on them? _Oh, Lord, you are so good to me. I will not let you down._

He sat in the alley all night, watching the darkened building, making plans.

Dean lay in bed, Sam snuggled up next to him. They were drowsy and sated, just listening to their heartbeats and the muted sounds from the street. Sam's finger traced along Dean's sternum, his breath soft on Dean's chest.

"I didn't do it," Sam said suddenly. "I want you to know that. I didn't do it."

Dean stretched his neck to turn a little toward his brother. "Didn't do what, baby?"

"Didn't cheat. Didn't copy anything. Didn't _plagierize._ " The final word dripped bitterness.

Dean scoffed. "Dude, I never thought you did. You don't need to, you're smarter than three-quarters of the world, at least. They were probably copying off you." He kissed Sam's forehead; he could feel the worry-wrinkles beneath his lips.

"Well, you're in the minority. Everyone thought I did it. Brady--my roommate--he stood up for me for a while. Kept telling people I was innocent. But when I had my hearing and I couldn't prove it? He stopped believing in me too. Told me right to my face what a lying, cheating scum I was." He snorted, but Dean heard the catch in his voice. "The funny thing was, he was a cheater. I caught him a couple of times with test answers, told him he better knock it off. Told him I'd help him study so he didn't need to cheat." A small, suspicious sniff followed the last sentence.

"Shows what a low-life he is. I bet he's some rich kid, can't hardly wipe the snot off his own nose, right? " Dean squeezed Sam's shoulders with the arm he'd draped there. "Fuckin' rich kids are the worst." A thought occurred to him. "Sam, how did they nail you? I mean, I know you didn't do it, so how did they prove that you did?"

"My computer...they found files on it. Files I never put there, Dean. _Never._ "

Dean's mind tumbled Sam's words around. He'd always thought Sam was the smartest person in the world, but Dean--Dean had more street-smarts. "So, Sammy, Brady ever borrow your laptop?"

Sam was silent for a moment. "Sure. His drive corrupted one time, and another time he forgot it at home, had to use mine to do some work before he could go pick his up." He propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Dean with big, hazel eyes. "Dean, are you suggesting--"

"That Brady framed you? Well, we know he had opportunity. Not sure what his motive was, but maybe he was just pissed at you for busting him about _his_ cheating. Did he know your password?" Sam was silent. "Sammy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he did. I was sick one time for a couple of days, and he turned some work in for me. I didn't worry about it because...because I trusted him. I _trusted_ him! Fucker!" Sam lay back down on Dean's chest, and he could feel Sam's jaw muscle clenching. Could see the anger on Sam's face without even looking.

"Shh, baby, I got you." Dean ran a hand back and forth, up and down Sam's shoulders and side. "You decide you want to pursue this, make it right, I'll back you all the way."

Sam shook his head. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe at some point. I'll think about it, but right now? I never want to go back there." His arm came over Dean, hugged him tightly. "I'm happy to be here with you, Dean."

 

A few days later, the front door chime at Hallowed Grounds rang at ten a.m., just as the morning rush was subsiding. Dean looked up to see Victor walking through the shop into the bakery kitchen. He saluted Victor with one floury hand, waving for him to sit on one of the tall stools. "Sam!" he called. "An Americano Grande doubleshot, and a large plain for me, and bring them back here." Sam acknowledged the order and joined them a few minutes later, carrying the hot mugs and setting them down on a clear area of table.

Dean wiped his hands on a towel and took his mug, sipping appreciatively. Victor did likewise, his eyes closing in bliss. "You boys do have the best roast in town," he said. "Got any of those raspberry things?" Sam laughed and popped back out front, returning with a few assorted pastries on a plate. Victor's white teeth dug into one with relish, and Sam helped himself as well, wolfing down a cheese danish in three bites.

"Okay, so aside from feeding your caffeine habit and sweet tooth, what can we help you with today, Vic?" asked Dean, laughing at the pastry crumbles scattered on the other two. "Not that I'm unwilling to aid and abet you, of course."

"I have a update on that fire," Victor said, after washing his last bite down with a slug of coffee. "It was a group of teenagers out for a late-night pot party. Got stoned, got stupid. They've been spanked with some juvie charges and released back to their very unhappy parents."

"Wow! So, no crazed religious guy?" asked Sam, picking up a second pastry. Dean looked at him sternly, and Sam said with a dimpled smile, "What? I'm a growing boy!"

"You grow any more, you'll need your own zip code," scoffed Dean, snapping his dish-towel at Sam, who snagged it away and tossed it in the hamper.

Victor laughed and said, "I don't even have that excuse. Your baking is just too good to resist, Dean." He wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin, swallowing the rest of his coffee as he stood up. "Well, I just wanted to give you boys the news. Now, that doesn't mean that Zachariah isn't still out there. But he doesn't seem to be breathing down your necks anyway."

"Thanks, said Dean. "It's good to know. We'll still keep an eye out, but who knows if he's even around here now, right? He could have just as easily moved on by now."

"Yup. If I hear anything different, I'll let you know. Thanks for the coffee and the snack." Victor waved, leaving the kitchen for the shop front. They heard him say goodbye to Jo and Andy before the bell signaled his departure.

"Well, that's a relief," said Sam. "I mean, I guess he's still out there somewhere, but it doesn't mean he's here anyway."

"Yeah," Dean answered. "He's probably out looking for a new savior or whatever." He blew a raspberry, making Sam laugh, and got off the stool. "Okay, back to work! The stuff for Pam is ready, if you want to take it over and bring today's salads back."

"I'm on it," said Sam, saluting before he picked up the bins and sauntered out the back door.

 

Missouri bustled around the soup kitchen; instructing over here, cajoling over there, wielding her wooden spoon like a scepter. She tasted the mulligatawny soup, nodding her approval, then checked on the vegetables and pasta. Everything looked ready for lunch, so she went out to check on the dining area.

Tables clean and with plastic covers on, check. Bins of napkins and silverware full, check. Little vases with fresh flowers dotted the tables; Missouri thought bringing a little natural beauty into the utilitarian space did a soul good just as the wholesome food nourished a body. A few early birds straggled in, sniffing the air appreciatively. Among them was the older, white-haired man she'd first noticed in the group sent over from the kitchen next town over that was now closed. Observing him more closely, she saw he was tall and had a deep chest, but he walked with his shoulders hunched, belying his size. He sat alone, mumbling to himself, making the sign of the cross and tracing other unknown figures on the table with his fingers.

Studying him, she felt a slight ripple of unease. Her mama had been rumored to have "the sight," and so had been much respected and a little feared in their neighborhood when Missouri was a girl. Missouri didn't think she herself was gifted like that, but she did have a good deal of intuition, and had learned to respect her own "vibes," as she referred to it. This fellow seemed harmless enough, blending in with the rest of the folk now entering, but still...she was starting to get a vibe off him. And it wasn't a good one.

"You got more going on than's on the surface," she murmured to herself. "And it feels like a thundercloud inside you. What is your story, old man?" An icicle of fear stabbed her chest as his protuberant blue eyes suddenly lifted and met hers straight on, as if he'd heard her thoughts. She instinctively made a sign of protection in the air, and his eyes clouded over and turned to the food line. _Surely it was my imagination,_ she told herself sternly. _No more of those mystery novels before bed, you silly goose._

But walking into the kitchen to issue the serving call, she found herself shivering nonetheless.

"There's the lovebirds," whispered Dean, walking behind the counter to put fresh trays of cookies into the display case. Sam turned and saw Pam and Charlie sitting at a little table, sipping coffee and sharing a piece of pie. They were smiling and chatting, enrapt with each other. Pam's hand lay on the table next to Charlie's. While Sam watched, Pam ran her fingers over the back of Charlie's hand, making the redhead giggle and blush, her adoring eyes never leaving Pam's face.

"Think they're already muff diving?" Dean snickered, sliding the trays into the case. Sam snagged a chocolate chocolate chip cookie and elbowed Dean in the chest at the same time, laughing as Dean grunted. "Dude, that was cold! What the fuck!"

"No swearing at the counter, Dean," Sam said primly, moving away to enjoy his cookie. "And if they're getting physical, then they're making love, not rutting like pigs the way you make it sound."

"I'm gonna rut against you, soon as we get upstairs," Dean whispered in Sam's ear, making sure to brush his groin against Sam's ass. Between that sweet friction and Dean's warm breath in his ear, Sam immediately got hard. It was Sam's turn to grunt with discomfort and Dean's to laugh, the laugh still ringing out as Dean disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Fucker," Sam muttered, trying to will his erection away and grateful for the apron that hid it. "Hi, what can I get you?" he said, smiling through gritted teeth at Pam, who was now at the counter ordering a coffee to go. Charlie had departed when he wasn't looking, and Pam was heading over to open her store for the day. He slopped hazelnut syrup over his hand instead of into the cup when his stupid brain flashed images of naked Dean through his mind, instead of watching what he was doing. When he looked up, Pam winked at him, making him even more flustered.

An hour or so later, Dean popped back out front to inform Sam that Pam's order of baked goods was ready for delivery. Sam took off his apron, relieved that now his dick was behaving, and took the filled bins out to his car, already parked in the back alley. Loading them into the back seat of his Charger, Sam turned and closed the back door to the kitchen.

When he turned back to the car, the world went black.

Dean swore, juggling hot trays of muffins onto the metal table when he heard the phone ring. _Time for some new oven mitts, replace these old ones,_ he thought, blowing on his fingers while listening to Jo answer the call. "Hello, Hallowed Grounds. How may I help you?" she said cheerfully. Half of Dean's brain waited to hear what kind of order it was, while the other half scanned the trays of bacon cheddar muffins, checking for even baking with no burnt bits.

The sound of the swinging door caught his attention when Jo walked into the kitchen. He looked up. "Hey, what did they want? Special order or just something to go?"

"Dean, it was Pam. She's asking where today's order is." Jo scrunched up her face, puzzled. "Didn't Sam leave with it like an hour ago?"

Dean forgot about his cooling trays. His brain jumped into overdrive while his heart started pounding in apprehension. He spun around and ran to the back door, yanking it open.

The food bins were thrown haphazardly in the alley. Sam's car was gone. Looking around anxiously, Dean saw no one around. He scanned the area carefully, looking for any trace of Sam. On the pavement, he saw a few drops of red.

Blood.

Sam's blood, dark and rich on the black, grainy asphalt.

 _Where's Sam?_ his brain gibbered. _Where where where?_

"Jo!" Dean yelled, running back into the kitchen. "Call Victor, tell him Sam's missing. I'm going over to Missouri's. Close the shop!"

"Close up? Sam's missing? Dean, what--"

" _Now_ , Jo! Do it _now!_ " Dean barked at her, then ran out the front door, ignoring her shocked face. He knew it was quicker just to run the couple of blocks to the soup kitchen than get the car and then have to park, and time was of the motherfucking essence.

_Sam!_


	9. And Light Remaining after Thunder

Sam's first thought was that that asshole Gordon, the foster roommate from Hell, had popped him in the nose again. He could feel the tear-inducing throbbing in his face from a sucker punch, the tickly trickle that meant he was bleeding down his upper lip. Gordon, one of many roommates Sam had encountered as he moved around from house to house, had taken an instant dislike to Sam, and enjoyed picking on him anytime Dean wasn't around. _Just wait till Dean sees this,_ Sam thought groggily. _He'll beat the snot out of that shithead._

He tried to sit up, but collapsed under the wave of pain in his head. It was focused in his nose, but radiated out around his eyes and into his cheekbones. _What did he hit me with? A fucking frying pan?_ Sam managed to think before blacking out again.

The second time he came to, he knew better that to try sitting up. _Where's Dean? Why aren't I at the doctor's?_ he wondered. Even the crappier foster parents knew to take an obviously injured charge to the doctor. For all the slipshod care they often received in the system, there was a certain line that couldn't be crossed, or the kids would be yanked and the state-issued money that went with them lost.

He brought up one hand and touched his face, moaning softly at the resultant pain. The blood had congealed now, a sticky trail from his nose to his mouth and chin. Just brushing his nose with his fingertips made him want to throw up from the pain. The rest of his face seemed intact, as far as he could tell from his hesitant probing, so the pain must all be from the broken nose. And probably a concussion. Between sports and fights, Sam had had a couple of those before, and he knew to lie still and let the nausea pass.

He looked around and saw he was in what looked to be a basement. Unpainted concrete walls, a litter of rusty tools, broken crates, debris everywhere. He was lying on a bare mattress on the floor. Dim light fought its way in through a narrow window set high on the wall, clouded with dirt and cobwebs. The room was too long for him to see all of it; the far end was shrouded in darkness, and he couldn't see well enough to ascertain if there were stairs, or perhaps an exit. _Well, this doesn't look good,_ he thought, trying to keep fear at bay. There were no good reasons he should have been smacked in the face and brought here, and he tried to keep from letting his mind race down the various avenues a place like this meant. Rape, kidnapping, death. He drew in a trembling breath, fighting to keep even remotely calm. Freaking out wasn't going to help. Sam had spent a lot of his life fighting and keeping his head about him in the piranha-laden waters of foster care, and he struggled to keep that calm head now.

He only partially won. The nausea and pain were too strong for him to attempt getting up--just lying there, he felt like throwing up, and every movement of his head set fresh waves of pain off again. As he worked on calming himself, it finally dawned on him to check for his phone. His hands patted his usual phone pocket, but it was empty. _No no no,_ he thought, as ever more urgently he rummaged through all of his pockets. _Please, please let it be here._ He checked again, patting all around him in case it had fallen out, but he came up empty. Then he felt truly bereft, lying still except for the tears silently sliding over his cheeks as he drifted back into unconsciousness.

"What? Dean, calm down, I can't understand you," Missouri said, forcing Dean onto a chair. "What happened to Sam?"

"He's gone! Someone took him, Missouri, there was blood on the pavement. It had to be Zachariah, I know it." Dean rubbed his face with one hand. "I thought maybe you might have found something out about him. I have to call Victor too, but I just ran here first."

Missouri took Dean's hand, squeezing it and keeping it between her own. "Dean, we'll find him. I'll call Victor right now. You have some water and catch your breath." A glass of water had materialized on the table, and Missouri nodded her thanks to the volunteer. She put it in Dean's hand, and he automatically raised it to his lips, taking a long swallow. She pulled out her cell phone and punched a button.

"Victor Henriksen, please. Missouri Mosely. It's an emergency." Only a moment passed before she spoke again. "Victor? It's Missouri. Sam Winchester is missing. Dean's here at the kitchen, but we'll meet you at Hallowed Grounds, okay?" She clicked the phone off and motioned for Dean to drink again. "Take a second and then we'll go meet Victor back at the bakery." She patted Dean's cheek and looked him in the eyes, noting his unshed tears. "We'll find him, baby. He'll be okay."

She bustled off to get her purse, her mind churning. _It had to be Zachariah. He had to be back. But why Sam? What did he want with Sam? A way to get Dean? Was he still fixated on Dean? After all these years? What on earth for?_ She shook her head to clear it of questions, grabbing her purse and hurrying back to Dean. They just didn't know enough. Maybe Victor had more of the puzzle.

But when she looked at Dean again, all she could see was the old man with the wild hair and bulging eyes, tracing odd signs on the tablecloth. That...and fire. She shivered.

Dean looked angrily at Victor. "What do you mean, you don't know? It's _Sam,_ Vic! We have to find him! Why are we sitting here yakking, instead of out there looking for him?" He pounded his fist on the table.

Victor grabbed Dean's shoulders and pushed him down on a chair. They were in the dining area of Hallowed Grounds, but the place was empty of customers. "Dean! We don't know where to look yet. I can't send out a squad and not give them a direction. Even a town this size has too many places to hide." He gentled his voice. "I know this sucks, and I'm right there with you. I'm not going to rest until we have Sam back. But we have to think first, figure out what is going on. Not go off like a loose cannon."

Dean nodded reluctantly. He knew Victor was talking sense, but every bit of him screamed to do something. "Okay, okay. You're right. So...how do we start?"

"We know where he was grabbed. We start there. On the other end of things, we start looking for Zachariah. The odds are good that he's involved, even though we don't know why he took Sam instead of you. Maybe he wanted to lure you out, set a trap for you with Sam as bait. Maybe the object of his fixation has changed." Victor turned to Missouri. "Do you know anything about him? Have you seen him at the soup kitchen?"

Missouri looked sadly at Dean. "I'm not sure, honey. With all the new people milling around, it's hard to say." She sighed, shaking her head. "There is this one guy who kinda stood out to me this week. Gave me a bad vibe the other day."

Dean leaned forward. "Why, Missouri? What was wrong with him?" He knew full well about Missouri's intuition, and he took it seriously. He'd been whacked with that spoon before, when he'd thought he'd gotten away with something.

Victor interjected, "What do you mean, a bad vibe?"

Missouri looked at Dean, then faced Victor. "It's just...a mix of intuition and empathy, I guess. I get a sense of people sometimes. Good, bad, sometimes someone who needs help in some way. Nothing constant or concrete. But this guy...I saw him waiting for the dinner service to open the other day, and he just kinda creeped me out."

Victor got his notepad out. "Tell me everything you can about him. I'm not turning down anything that could give us a lead, however slim." He nodded at Missouri to begin.

"Well, he's a tall man, but he hunched over a lot. Half bald, half crazy white hair all sticking up. Pale blue eyes, kinda bulgy, and jumpy, looking everywhere all the time. I saw him making the sign of the cross while he was waiting, but it looked like he was drawing other signs on the table with his fingers. I couldn't tell what they were, maybe it was just nonsense, but...he made me feel uncomfortable." She covered Dean's hand with her own. "I'm so sorry if he's the one, but there was nothing to go on. Just the hairs rising on the back of an old woman's neck."

Dean nodded, clearing his throat to say, "It's okay. Not like I'd know him if I saw him." He slammed his fist on the table. "Dammit!"

Victor let out a long breath, shaking his head. "Dean, you were four. And traumatized to boot. It's no surprise that you can't remember his face. Plus, he's twenty years older now. And asylum life isn't an easy one." He reached for his desk phone, punching in numbers. "What we _can_ do is pull up his arrest record, check the photo on that. Even if it's twenty years ago, it'll give us a starting point."

Missouri asked, "When you get it, can I see it? Maybe it'll be close enough to say if it's the same man as the one who gave me the heebie-jeebies."

Victor stood up and extended his hand to Missouri, helping her up. "You're not wrong there, Missouri. Do you mind coming down to the station with me? If it _is_ him, we can see about getting the recent version of him on paper. Sooner we have a likeness, sooner we can put out an APB on this guy."

"I'd be happy to, Sheriff Henriksen. Anything to help Sam." She stopped to hug Dean. "We'll find him, honey. We'll find him."

As they left, Dean felt the vestiges of hope leave with them. _We'll find him...but will it be too late?_

Sam woke again, this time finding the light gone. _Must be night,_ he thought, grimacing at the passage of time. _Are they looking for me yet?_ Even more grim was the thought, _And even if they are, how will they find me down here?_ He tried to push that thought away--he wasn't going to give up hope so soon. Dean and Victor would be looking for him already. He knew Dean must have found the car already, still filled with Pam's food. There couldn't have been much lag time between his being snatched and the discovery of his kidnapping.

In the meantime, he tried to look around his prison. Unfortunately, even with his eyes adjusting to the dark, there was not much more to discern than he'd seen earlier. The pain was still pretty strong, but now he felt rumblings of hunger inside, and his throat and mouth were dry. He tried not to wonder if he was just going to be abandoned here. _That makes no sense,_ he reassured himself. _Why take me just to leave me to starve?_

He couldn't tell how much time passed, lying there in the dark. There was no sound from outside, no traffic, no footsteps tapping on the sidewalk. He started to feel like he was floating in the darkness, and he remembered psychology articles in college that talked about sensory deprivation and hallucinating. He pinched himself--yeah, he felt that. He gently touched his nose, and the pain actually came with little sparks behind his eyelids. Okay, so he was real and alive all right.

Finally he had to pee, and he was not going to pee on himself or his mattress. He sat up carefully, his head pounding with the change in altitude, and slowly crept his way down the mattress to the wall. The thought that he could get lost in this huge, dark room sprang into his head, and he didn't want to lose his mattress and the entirely flimsy feeling of safety it gave him. He followed the wall a couple of feet to a pile of wood and metal and stood up, lowering his jeans and holding his dick to make it pee as far away as possible. Feeling the pressure in his bladder diminish gave him a small bit of relief, and after fastening his fly, he felt around cautiously. Perhaps there was some piece of metal or wood that could work as a weapon. At the same time, he didn't want to lose a hand accidentally by grabbing an old saw blade.

Nothing seemed loose or movable, though. He gave up quickly and crawled back onto his mattress. He lay back down, huddling in on himself as he started to feel chilly in addition to the throbbing of his concussion. And, despite the lingering nausea, he was hungry--God, was he was hungry.

And alone. So fucking alone.

*

Dean spent a restless night, falling asleep only to awake again and again with a start, Sam's name on his lips. He finally got up before dawn, throwing in the towel on any further rest. Food was unappealing, but he managed to down a couple cups of coffee. Downstairs, he could hear voices as Ellen and Andy opened the shop. He'd called them last night, simply saying that something had come up and could they please open and man the shop. They would run out of baked goods at some point, but they could sell what was there and keep up with the coffee trade for the day.

A hot shower woke him up more thoroughly, and he threw on clothes before deciding to go check in at the station. Maybe there was something new to report. Maybe the sketch release had scored some hits. Maybe Sam would be sitting there, wrapped up on one of those coarse brown blankets the emergency services always seemed to have. Or the silver foil ones that looked like they couldn't keep anyone warm. He never understood how silver foil worked as a blanket. He'd feel like a baked potato. Hmm, baked potatoes were warm...

Realizing that his thoughts were deteriorating into drivel, Dean poured some coffee into a travel mug and ran downstairs. He avoided the shop, not wanting to talk to Ellen about what was going on yet, and instead walked quickly to the station. Maybe Victor had some news.

Victor did not have any news. Dean felt his energy morph into pure anxiety, jittering around Victor's office until the detective barked at him to sit the fuck down.

"We've submitted a warrant to release Zachariah's institutional records, and we're checking for any security cameras around Hallowed Grounds. Missouri was able to make a sketch of her weird guy with our artist, and that's been passed out to foot and motor patrols. I'm going to go talk to Pastor Jim--he's the one who ran the other kitchen and shelter that just closed, see if Zachariah was there at all before coming to Missouri's kitchen. You can come, but you better not make a peep without my say-so, you understand?" Victor's glare was fierce.

Dean nodded, miming zipping his mouth shut with his fingers. Victor rolled his eyes, muttering, "Yeah, right." They left his office, stopping to pick up a copy of the sketch. "So, he look familiar to you at all?" asked Victor, handing the paper to Dean.

Dean studied the picture. It was just as Missouri had described - protuberant eyes, a balding head with wild hair around it, a wide slash of a thin-lipped mouth. Memory tickled the back of his brain--he _had_ seen this guy. "Yeah, Vic. He's the guy from The Wooden Spoon. The guy I said had a...had a crush on Sam." His voice thickened. "I joked about him having bad taste not picking me instead." He choked a sob down, gritting his teeth until they hurt.

Victor clapped him on the shoulder and spoke reassuringly. "Don't beat yourself up about this, man. You had no idea what was going on in his head. At least now we have something for the patrols to look for. Now, let's go talk to Pastor Jim, see what he can tell us."

Pastor Jim could not tell them much. He recognized the picture, but Zachariah had only come there a couple of times before the place had closed. "He seemed a little loopy, but frankly many of the people who came here could be described as such. Life on the streets is tough, and many need medications that they can't get. I can't say that he seemed dangerous or threatening at all." He looked at Dean sadly. "I'm so sorry, I wish I could tell you more."

Dean nodded, his jaw clenched with worry and disappointment. He ran a hand through his hair, mind racing to think where Sam might be, much less what might be happening to him. "What now, Vic? Where do we go next?"

"Let's go talk to Pam. Maybe she saw him loitering and watching outside her grocery." Victor sighed as they walked to the car. "Unfortunately, this is a lot of what detective work is like--following up on any possible lead, no matter how remote. You never know what small bit of information will put you on the trail to the answer."

Pam greeted them warmly, her dark eyes looking sympathetically at Dean. "What can I do? Ask me anything. I'm just sick about Sam," she said in her husky voice. Charlie was there as well, wrapping her arms around Dean in a tight hug. He buried his face in her hair for a moment, relaxing in her warm embrace and burying his nose in her hair, smelling her rosemary mint shampoo.

"It's gonna be okay, Dean," she whispered. "It has to be." He nodded, unable to speak.

They sat down at one of the little bistro tables scattered around the deli section of Pam's store. Dean hadn't really been in the place since right before Pam had opened, and he looked around now, noticing how warm and attractive it was. The walls were painted in a warm beige, accented with rust-colored trim and decorated with pottery in terracotta and indigo hues. The bistro tables and chairs were the traditional wrought iron, the chairs upholstered in a rust and navy print, while the tables had glass tops, with cheerful postcards from the Southwest underneath. Someone brought them a carafe of coffee and four pottery mugs, and they sat and sipped for a quiet moment, everyone with their own thoughts. Dean saw Charlie's hand creep into Pam's, and felt a flash of happiness for them. Then he thought about maybe never holding Sam's hand again, and the ache inside him threatened to swallow him up.

Pam had nothing to add--after looking at the sketch, she said she hadn't seen Zachariah around at all. Charlie hadn't either, shaking her head in dismay. Victor sighed and looked grim, while Dean's head started buzzing and he gripped the table, his head starting to whirl. Pam looked at him and asked, "Dean, have you eaten at all today?"

"Uh, no," he mumbled, and a minute later, a roast beef sandwich was sitting in front of him, the juicy meat resting on a toasted everything bagel.

"Eat," Pam said firmly. "You won't do any good if you pass out from low blood sugar."

He was about to decline when the sharp tang of horseradish caught his nose. Suddenly he was ravenous, his stomach angrily reminding him he hadn't eaten since sometime yesterday afternoon. He dug in, almost moaning over the delicious sandwich. Looking up, he saw the other three staring at him, ignoring their own sandwiches as they watched him. "What?" he said around a mouthful of roast beef. "It's fuckin' good." Everyone laughed, albeit a little nervously, and then conversation died except for compliments about the food.

A piece of bumbleberry pie and fresh coffee followed the sandwich, and Dean had to admit he felt a whole lot better. He tried not to worry about whether or not Sam was eating; as Victor reminded him, they had to keep their own strength up if they were to help Sam.

"Now, something's occurred to me," mused Pam, sipping hot herbal tea instead of coffee. "I had an idea while we were eating."

Dean leaned forward eagerly, pushing his empty plate away. "What? Anything," he said, unable to keep the emotion out of his voice. Charlie squeezed his hand and continued holding it while Pam talked.

"This is going to sound a little, um, New Age-y, but I have a friend who's a psychic." She stopped there, looking at Dean and Victor as if to gauge their reaction.

Victor and Dean exchanged skeptical glances. "Pam, I don't think--" Victor said, but Charlie interrupted him.

"Come on, guys. Police departments all over the country have used psychics. I'm as cynical as the next chick, but there is plenty of documentation supporting psychic assistance in missing person cases." Her eyes were soft as she looked at Dean. "Do we really not want to take advantage of any resource, despite how wacky it might sound?"

Dean huffed, but he could not refute Charlie's argument. He didn't care if a giant teddy bear with a big red bow said it knew where Sam was, he would listen to it. He conceded to Charlie with a nod. "Yeah, you're right. I'm not going to ignore anything or anyone that could help us." He turned to Victor. "This is someone Pam knows, so I gotta give them that much credit. It's not like a kook barreling into the station, chanting and waving burning sage around. I say let's meet this...this psychic, at least see if they can come up with a clue." He dropped his head into one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose before looking up again. "What do we have to lose, right?"

Pam left to try calling her friend, promising to buzz Victor right away when she got hold of him. Dean and Victor thanked her for lunch and returned to the station, hoping to hear something concrete from a patrol.

Sam woke to an ache in his belly, a desert in his throat, and stiffness throughout his body. He groaned as he rolled onto his back from his side, his muscles complaining about the cold that seeped through the thin mattress from the concrete floor. The pain in his face had abated slightly, and he was able to open his eyes a little more easily. A feeble, grayish light fought its way through the narrow dirty window, illuminating the bleakness of his surroundings again. And this time, he was not alone.

Seeing the old man made Sam jump, his presence was so unexpected after all the hours alone. He was crouched across the room from Sam, legs crossed and his arms drawn close around his body. He wore what must have been a navy blue business suit at one point, but now was dirty, raggedy, and worn. Uncombed white hair stuck out around his head, an unkempt crown around a bald pate. He was staring at Sam with big blue eyes, muttering softly to himself. Sam tried to ascertain if he meant to attack or become violent, but the man's expression was either serene or outright vapid.

He looked more alert when he saw that Sam was awake. The man cackled like a witch in a fairy tale, Sam thought, and it wasn't funny--it was chilling. It was a sound of madness, an unhinged sound, alarming Sam and warning him this man was perhaps not just the random street dweller he appeared.

"The Morningstar has risen!" The man's voice was hoarse, like he hadn't talked in a long time. "Dear Lord, protect me from his honeyed words and dark intent." He made the sign of the cross, followed by other vague gestures in the air, apparently meant to protect himself.

"I'm Sam Winchester. Why am I here? Did you bring me here?" Sam's voice was hoarse too, the tissue of his throat dry from thirst. "Can I have some water?"

The old man studied him for a moment in silence. He mumbled mostly to himself, "Not time yet. Not yet." A bottle of water appeared from a plastic grocery bag next to him, and he rolled it toward Sam, not stirring from his seat. Sam propped himself up on one elbow, moving slowly to avoid a blast of pain or a bout of dizziness. He picked it up and twisted the cap, forcing himself to drink slowly and let the liquid penetrate his parched throat. Even at room temperature, it was the coolest, most refreshing water he'd ever had.

"Thanks. Uh, why am I here? Can you help me get out?" Sam's initial fear of the man abated slightly with the water, but he felt he should move cautiously; he had no idea what to expect with this guy. Even sitting huddled as he was, the man looked to be pretty big, if somewhat thin. His dilapidated suit jacket hung loose on large bones.

The man ignored him, drifting into a recitation of The Lord's Prayer, muttering it softly.

Sam sat up slowly, and the pain stayed manageable. "What's your name? I'm Sam."

The man broke out in a peal of howling laughter. "Sam! Sam! Of course it is. Sam. What an ordinary name for the Dark Prince to choose."

That rattled Sam a little. _Who the fuck is the Dark Prince? How out there is this guy?_ he thought. "Yeah, pretty ordinary," he agreed. "Uh, not sure who this Dark Prince guy is though. I'm just a college student, I'm working at my brother's place for now."

"Your _brother?_ The Vessel is your _brother?_ Oh, how perfect is God, that He creates such incredible parallels!" The man laughed and laughed, rocking a little as he sat on the floor.

It hurt to think still, but Sam fought the pain, knowing he needed to figure out what was going on. "I don't know what you mean with this Vessel and Prince stuff." He got his knees underneath him and started to stand up, leaning against the wall and never turning his back to Crazy Religious Guy.

"Of course your brother is the Vessel. He was chosen as such many years ago. I was not permitted then to see that his very brother is the Morningstar, just as Michael and Lucifer are brothers. It is fitting, so very fitting. The heavenly battle will rage again, and then Michael will smite his brother down, and peace will reign." C.R.G. stood up suddenly, alarming Sam, who stumbled and only stayed upright because of the wall behind him.

Sam stared at C.R.G.; the man's possible identity slowing dawning on him through the clouds in his concussed brain. _Holy shit, is this--could this be Zachariah?_ Sam shook his head, immediately regretting it as a fresh wave of pain and nausea washed through him, almost bringing him to his knees. _What does he want with me? Don't his fantasies revolve around Dean?_ He leaned heavily against the wall, shivering with cold, hunger, and fear.

C.R.G.--Zachariah--rose from his seat on the floor. He moved parallel to Sam, keeping the same distance from him but following him as Sam inched down the wall. "Don't be afraid, _Sam._ " He said the name with sarcasm, like Sam was fooling with him but he saw through it. "When you and your brother meet again, the archangels Lucifer and Michael will possess your bodies. Then the final battle will be fought for control of the Earth and the command of Heaven. Michael, of course, will be the victor, and Lucifer--you--will be cast into the darkest pit for all eternity, and peace will reign." Zachariah gave a happy sigh. "And I will be rewarded with a seat at Michael's right hand."

Sam listened in horror. He didn't care about the religious fantasies Zachariah had spun for himself, but being cast into a pit didn't sound good for Sam's immediate future. "How did you decide I'm the Dark Prince in this little scenario? I was a baby when you tried to take Dean."

Zachariah frowned. "Yes, I needed Dean, but the woman resisted me. She didn't understand the importance of my task." He shook his head. "She paid for that ignorance."

"You killed her," Sam said, and was amazed at how calm his voice sounded discussing his mother's death.

"No! She killed herself by interfering with the grand plan! I merely cast her aside. Then I tried to purify her with fire, so she might still ascend to Heaven. But that cost me...cost me so dearly. I lost the Vessel, and spent years in Purgatory." His face crumpled. "That hellish place...full of unbelievers and sinners. They kept me imprisoned and forced drugs into me. I waited and waited as my Lord instructed me, and finally I was set free. Free to resume the task I had not been able to finish." He looked at Sam, his face now dark and angry. "I will finish it this time. I have vowed it to my Lord and the entire Host."

"But...where do I come in? I was only a baby." Sam wanted to keep Zachariah talking--if he were talking, he wasn't doing anything else. Like killing Sam.

"When I first saw Dean after my release, he was with you. The Light and the Dark. And I knew--I _knew_ you were the appointed Vessel for the Dark One. You were for the Morningstar, the Fallen One, just as Dean is for Michael." Zachariah smiled now, the beatific smile of the true believer. "And it all made sense. My years of waiting. Of suffering. It was so I could give both Vessels to my Lord. Show him I was the best servant He could ask for."

Zachariah refocused on Sam. "Enough talk." He must have been faster than he looked, because Sam never saw the punch coming, only the darkness reclaiming him.


	10. And Light Remaining after Thunder

Dean and Victor were waiting in Victor's office for Pam and her psychic friend to arrive. Dean was going out of his mind, envisioning all manner of horrible things happening to Sam. He refused to think the very worst thing of all--that maybe Sam was already dead. In the meantime, he sat unmoving, staring at the scuffed floor tiles, having gone beyond the point of endlessly jittering nerves into a deadly calm.

"Dean," Victor said, then fell quiet.

"Yeah, Vic? What is it?" Dean rubbed his boot over a scuffmark.

"I just...I want you to know I'll do everything I can to get Sam back." He cleared his throat. "Back...to you."

Dean's head snapped up. He stared at Victor, who returned his look blandly. "Vic, what...uh, what do you mean, 'to me?'"

Victor just kept looking at him. And looking at him.

And Dean knew. He didn't know how Victor knew, but he did. Dean's cheeks grew warm, and he tried to think of something to say, but what? _Yeah, my brother and I are in love. We're together in every way. How 'bout those Cardinals?_ He croaked out, "Uh, Victor..."

"Everything I can, Dean. My promise."

"Hey, guys. Any news?" Pam's whisky-rough voice broke the moment between the two men. He and Victor stood up, Dean accepting the hug Pam gave him as she entered.

Behind her was a man in a plain black suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a bright blue tie loose around his neck. The general impression he gave was rumpled; rumpled suit, rumpled shirt, rumpled black hair. He had a dark five o'clock shadow that emphasized the fairness of his skin. Dean was struck by the bright blue of his eyes--penetrating eyes, eyes that looked like they had seen a lot, but still offered compassion as well.

"This is my friend, Castiel," said Pam. They all shook hands.

"Castiel? Just...Castiel? Like, Cher?" asked Dean. Pam tsked at him.

"Yes," said Castiel. His voice was gravelly and rough, but calm. "Like Cher." He looked around the small office. "Can we go somewhere to talk?"

"Sure," said Victor, and he led them to an empty interrogation room. They all sat down, Pam looking around at the bare room with a little hesitancy.

"I thought they just looked like this on television," she whispered to Dean. "Damn."

Victor addressed Castiel. "I don't know what Pam has told you, but we're looking for a missing person. A person who may have been snatched by someone meaning harm to him and to Dean, so time is of the essence here. We have no leads--no one has seen this person, and we don't know where to even start searching." He cleared his throat. "I haven't personally worked with a psychic before, but I've heard reports from fellow officers that they have been helpful at times. Pam personally recommended you, so I'm willing to give this a try."

Castiel nodded. "I understand your skepticism. I can't say that psychics always know everything, but some of us--the genuine ones, not the fakes, of which there are far too many--can sometimes offer glimpses that can steer a search in a helpful direction. I can't promise anything, but I will do what I can to help you."

Dean barely resisted scoffing. 'Can't promise anything' sounded like an easy out for a con man. _How is this going to help find Sam?_ he thought despairingly. He closed his eyes to fight back the prickling tears that threatened unexpectedly.

"I don't know how it will help yet, Dean." Dean opened his eyes to find Castiel addressing him directly in his gravelly voice. "I say 'can't promise' because I don't want to lead you on, not because I am a con man." Dean started, looking at Pam and Victor, then back at Castiel. The blue eyes regarded him steadily. "You don't have to trust me. Just tell me about you and Sam, and what you know about Zachariah."

They laid it all out. Zachariah's early attempt at snatching Dean. Mary's subsequent death and the fire. Zachariah's years spent in an institution, and his recent release. Their fears about his sanity, the apparent risk to Sam, and possibly to Dean as well. "The only reason we can think for him to take Sam is to get to Dean," said Victor. "Otherwise, what is his motive? And that's if it even is him. For that matter, are we limiting ourselves by focusing on Zachariah?"

"No," said Castiel. "Just from what you say, I feel it is indeed him behind this. I confess I also do not know what the motive is for Sam's abduction. Somehow it must fit into his fantasy world that Dean plays such an important role in. What I want to do is concentrate and see if I can discern anything about where Sam is now. Part of that will depend on Sam knowing where he is. If he doesn't, it will be much harder." He looked at Dean. "May I take your hand?"

Dean felt nervous, although he didn't know why. Pam nodded at him reassuringly, so he extended one hand and Castiel clasped it in his own. Castiel closed his eyes and sat silently for several minutes. Dean looked at Victor with raised eyebrows, feeling skeptical all over again. Victor shrugged, and Pam frowned at him. Dean sighed and sat still.

"Oh," said Castiel with surprise. "Oh..."

Dean felt a thrill of apprehension. What had the man just seen? He didn't sound alarmed or upset, so it must not be about Sam's current whereabouts or Zachariah. He cocked his head, studying Castiel, trying to figure out what had prompted his exclamation. Bright blue eyes suddenly opened and looked deep into Dean's, a gaze that plumbed deep inside him, and suddenly Dean realized what the psychic had divined.

Castiel knew about him and Sam. About the true nature of their relationship.

Dean's heart stopped for a moment. He felt numb, not just his body unfeeling, but his mind too was blank, unable to respond to anything. What now? Would Castiel stand up and walk out in disgust? Curse at Dean, reveal his incestuous love? Dean's heart kicked back into gear, pounding out a nervous rhythm, his hand sweating in Castiel's grasp, as he waited...

A faint nod and those piercing blue eyes closed again.

Castiel knew...and he didn't care.

It felt like fresh air ran through Dean, a rush of new oxygen in his blood that restarted his brain and inflated his lungs. He hadn't even considered the possibility that the psychic might pick up the truth about them. Now that it had happened, a wave of relief washed over Dean. If Castiel had uncovered his deepest secret--the nature of the love the brothers shared--then perhaps...

Perhaps he really could help find Sam.

Castiel closed his eyes again. He'd been a little surprised to realize that Sam and Dean were not merely brothers, but lovers as well. More than just lovers though--soulmates, if he were to use the proper word. They'd been entwined for years, decades, lifetimes before this. Unfortunately, they'd been born as brothers this time around, but the depth and demand of their love had ultimately ignored that social restriction. It did mean that they had to hide how they truly felt, though. Society would not understand.

Having found that bond actually made Castiel's job a little easier. Sam resonated inside Dean, just as Dean undoubtedly resonated within Sam. Without opening his eyes, Castiel reached out his other hand to Dean. Better contact with one brother would help Castiel follow the path to the missing one.

Dean apparently understood, taking Castiel's offered hand. Dean's hands were warm and strong, and a sensation of heat surged through Castiel, leaving him breathless...and horny. He fought for self-control; it was not the first time something like this had happened, as he picked through strong emotions to find someone, but quelling such an intense reaction was never easy. If he'd had any doubts about the bond between Dean and Sam being sexual, they were extinguished in that flash of heat.

 _Settle down,_ he told himself. _Concentrate, breathe. Follow the string out into the world..._

It was not a terribly snarly string--clearly Sam had been centered around Dean, their apartment, and the bakery. He quickly located the truncated thread and started casting around in a circle from that point. Wider...wider...

_Sam!_

_I'm dreaming._ Sam drifted in the blackness of sleep, vague colors and images washing over him and past him. Dean's face swam by often, but always out of reach. Flares of red lit up the darkness occasionally, matching up with the twinges of pain from his nose, radiating out jaggedly and then ebbing. He felt like he was floating, the darkness carrying him like a meandering river through the ever-changing dreamscape.

"Sam," said a voice. A strange, deep voice, soft but firm, unfamiliar to Sam. He looked around in the dark and saw a narrow slice of light, like the beam that falls through a door barely cracked open. He started struggling, trying to move closer, swim over to the light.

"Who are you? Am I still dreaming?" asked Sam. His voice sounded muted to his ears, like the air was too thick to carry sound waves properly. The beam was a little larger now, but he didn't see anyone there. "Are you real? Help me, please!"

"My name is Castiel, and I am trying to find you. Your brother is here with me, with the police. What can you tell me about where you are? Are you in immediate danger? Are you with Zachariah?"

"I don't think I am quite in danger yet, but I'm not sure. Yes, it's Zachariah--he's talking about killing the Morningstar, and something about how I'm the Dark Prince and Dean is some kind of heavenly vessel. I don't think he's going to hurt me while he's trying to get Dean, but then all bets are off." Sam felt giddy; they were looking for him, trying to rescue him. "I don't know where I am. It's some old basement, all full of busted up wooden crates and old metal pieces and junk. There's a little window up by the ceiling, but only a little light gets in. It's too dark to see the whole room, it's really long. I can't see a door or anything from here."

"Don't worry about that right now. I want you to try looking out that window, look for anything you can tell me. We need some clues to locate you."

Sam was so relieved to be communicating that he hadn't thought about how it was even happening until now. "How can you hear me? How can I hear you? Am I just going crazy? Is this just me hallucinating?" His giddiness at being contacted receded as he began to doubt his sanity.

"You are not crazy," responded the gruff voice. "There's not time now, but I will explain it later. Go look now, before you wake up!"

Sam didn't process how he could look out a window in his sleep, but suddenly he saw the basement around him more clearly. He turned and saw himself sleeping on his mattress. That was definitely freaky, so he averted his eyes quickly and looked around. Being physically unfettered--was this what they meant by an astral plane?--it was actually easy to drift around the room.

He floated to the window, able to be eye-level with it in this ghostlike state, and peered through the grimy glass. It was situated a foot or so above sidewalk level, so primarily he saw pavement. He peered out, trying to find some landmark or point of focus that he could relay to Castiel.

"I think this building is on the corner--I can just see the cross-street's pavement, but not the sign. There's a blue mailbox on one side, and a fire hydrant on the other. That's...that's all I can see." His heart sank a little; there had to be lots of corners with mailboxes and hydrants on them. "Sorry."

He turned away from the window, his eyes roving the piles of junk. There were some big rectangles of metal along the wall, faded paint peeling from their sides. Sam thought perhaps they might be signs, so he went over and tilted them away from the wall. They _were_ signs, they must have hung in the doorway and windows of the old building once. Sam told Castiel about them, just in case it helped.

"Castiel? There's some old metal signs here. Says "Cappy's" on one, uh..."Cappy's Sandwich Shack". The other way says, "Best Hoagies in Town".

Castiel asked, "Sam, are you sure that's what they say? Hurry, you are close to waking up."

"Yeah, they're faded, but I can read them okay. Why, Castiel, what's--"

And just as if the phone had been hung up, the connection with the mysterious Castiel broke. Sam was so shocked at the abrupt severance that he flew back into himself and woke up.

Dean waited anxiously, forcing himself to sit quietly and hold Castiel's hand. The psychic sat unmoving in his chair, eyes closed, a peaceful expression on his face. _What the everloving fuck is this?_ thought Dean. His moment of faith in Castiel's abilities was fading fast as the seconds ticked by. Glancing at Victor, Dean saw the detective's eyes studying Castiel intently.

Suddenly Castiel spoke, and Dean jumped. "Sam," was all Castiel said at first, making Dean's breath catch as he leaned forward, squeezing Castiel's hand.

Silence for a few seconds, and then, "My name is Castiel, and I am trying to find you. Your brother is here with me, with the police. What can you tell me about where you are? Are you in immediate danger? Are you with Zachariah?"

This time, both Victor and Dean jumped. Their eyes met, and Dean saw Victor's face looking as shocked as Dean felt. Had Castiel really connected with Sam? Or was he conning them?

"Don't worry about that right now. I want you to try looking out that window, look for anything you can tell me. We need some clues to locate you."

Dean's chest was getting tighter. He was bursting with questions for Castiel, but didn't dare interrupt him if what was happening was real. If Castiel really was talking with Sam, Dean didn't want to break what had to be a tenuous connection.

"You are not crazy, but I will explain it later. Go look now, before you wake up!"

Victor grabbed a pen and a note pad, hand poised to record anything Castiel said.

Castiel was quiet for a few more minutes, and Dean's anxiety wound tighter and higher with every passing second. He was about to yell at the psychic and ask what was going on, when the man gasped, making Dean and Victor both jump. Castiel suddenly asked, "Sam, are you sure that's what they say? Hurry, you are close to waking up." The waiting men exchanged worried glances, and just as Victor reached out to shake Castiel's shoulder, his blue eyes popped open.

"Castiel, what is it?"

"What did he say?"

Dean and Victor's questions jumbled up together, but Castiel ignored them, putting up a hand so they would quiet down.

"He was able to give me some clues to his location."

"What?" asked Dean in confusion. "Where? Where is he?"

Castiel looked at him intently. "I am not sure, Dean, but I think you may have been there before. When Sam showed me what he saw, I felt the string between he and I lead to you as well."

Sam woke up abruptly. The sensation of sinking back into his own body was a jarring one, disturbing and disorienting, and he had that feeling like he'd almost fallen out of bed. He sat up too quickly and the room spun briefly, but at least the pain in his head was not as bad. The conversation with the psychic--Castiel? It already seemed like he'd dreamed it; had it really happened? Had he been able to communicate anything helpful to locate him?

Would they find him before Zachariah came back?

He brought his knees to his chest, fighting back the hunger, the fear, the panic that threatened to overtake him. Zachariah was capable of anything--he showed no compunction about his actions. He'd even already talked about killing Sam. Sam had faced a lot of things in his life--poverty, homelessness, even his college dream had been ruined, but he'd never faced death. The possibility he could be killed here-- _die_ here, in this dark basement--was both terrifying and unfathomable.

 

_Dean's gonna come. Castiel's gonna find me. it's going to be okay._

_It has to be._

He decided to attempt exploring a little more, while he had the scant light the window allowed. Maybe he could find where he'd been brought into this space. He tried standing up, but quickly went to his hands and knees again. Even that stance triggered the pain again, but he doggedly moved forward, fighting it with every step. He could only go slowly anyway--the concrete floor was rough, scraping his palms and his knees.

There seemed to be a small path through the junk piles; once he was a couple of feet from his mattress and the clear space around it, he found it. He crawled along, but the room seemed enormous, and the nausea worsened with every foot. He finally had to stop and retch, his empty stomach only bringing up bile, flaying his dry throat raw and making him choke. He collapsed, barely avoiding his own mess, and he lay there on the bare concrete until the chill of it drove him to return to his mattress.

Once he was back on it, body shivering and head spinning, he gave way to a few dry sobs as he spun down into oblivion. 

Pam walked into her apartment. Charlie was sitting on the couch, typing furiously on her laptop. A young man was there as well, also typing furiously. "Hi, babe." she said, kissing the top of Charlie's head. "Um, who's our guest?" She looked curiously at the young man--a cute Asian guy, caramel skin and jet black hair, cut spiky, with a wide mouth and sweet eyes.

"Oh, sorry--Pam, this is Kevin. He works at the computer store where Dean got his laptop from. And he's a nerd. And a geek. Both, really. But that's not important now. He's really good at hacking, like almost as good as me." Kevin blew a raspberry and threw a pencil at Charlie, who fended it off with her messenger bag. "We were trying to look at the old police reports from Mary Winchester's death, and also Zachariah's files at the institution he lived at." Her chin quivered, and her eyes welled up. "Just to see if there's anything that can help, you know? Help find Sam?"

"Oh, honey," said Pam, and pulled the redhead into her arms. They clung together, Charlie's breath hitching as she struggled to control her sobs and Pam slowly stroking her back, rubbing between her shoulder blades. "They're gonna find him, baby. They will. I took Castiel over to the police station, and they were already working with him when I left." She gently tugged Charlie's head back and looked her in the eyes, wiping trickling tears away with her thumbs. "I have a good feeling about this. They are going to find him, and he's going to be okay." She kissed Charlie on the forehead as the other woman nodded.

"Okay, yeah. You're right. You're right." Charlie wiped her eyes with the side of one hand and sat back down. "This is me putting on my determined face." She frowned and pursed her lips. Pam couldn't help a little laugh. "Hey! Don't laugh at the determined face!"

Kevin chuckled too. "Come on, Charlie. Let's switch. I'll take the police reports and you take the Blue Earth Sanitarium records." He groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Although if I read one more dry report or work on one more password algorithm, my eyes are gonna fall out of my head. They're burning already."

Charlie sat back down next to him, passing him a water bottle. "Hydrate up, my friend. And here's the Visine."

Pam headed for the kitchen to make snacks. It could be a long night.

"Okay. Castiel, it sounds like maybe you got something? Can you tell us what...what Sam saw? What he said?" Victor's voice was calm and authoritative. Dean knew it didn't mean his friend was unfeeling, he was just as worried about Sam as any of them, but Victor was damn good at his job and he wouldn't let his emotions--or anyone else's--get in the way of the work. "Do you want to write it down?"

"No. Sam was very clear about what he saw. There were a couple of metal signs for a sandwich shop in the basement where he is. One said "Cappy's Sandwich Shop" and the other had "Best Hoagies in Town" on it. The rest of the place was filled with junk and debris. He was able see out a small window, a narrow one set up high, and he was able to determine the building was on a corner. There's a mailbox on one side and a fire hydrant on the other, although he and I both felt that will be a fairly common occurrence."

Castiel's blue eyes looked piercingly at Dean. "Dean, I felt something from there connected to you. Is there any chance you remember something about that place?" He leaned forward, putting a hand on Dean's arm. "I know--I _know_ \--that this is horribly difficult for you, and I would not push if it were not so important. Please...try to remember what it might be." He raised a hand, putting his index and middle fingertips against Dean's forehead and said, " _Remember_."

_Red soaking the spun gold of Mommy's hair. Pooling bright and shiny against the gray concrete floor._

Turning and running, running, running. He doesn't even know where, just...away. The creepy man yelling after him, chasing him. But Dean is fast, the fastest boy on the playground. His feet slamming against the sidewalk, breath coming hard, lungs burning. Not even aware of where he is going, but instinct must have kicked in and he's there. He's at the Harvelle's, banging on the door, throwing it open and running inside.

He's crying, can't talk for being out of breath and the sobs wracking his body.

Screaming.

Mrs. Harvelle cries out when she sees him, hugging him, yelling shrilly for her husband to call the police.

And then it's dark.


	11. And Light Remaining after Thunder

"It's near the park," Dean says flatly. "An empty building--it's right by the park. Within a block or two. That was as far as I'd ever run before. I ran--" His voice choked. "I ran as fast as I could, but it...I got away, but..." His voice failed.

"Dean, what are you saying?" Victor leaned forward, his eyes focused intently on Dean. "Do you know this building? Have you been there before?"

"Yes," Dean said thickly. "It's where my mother was killed." He closed his eyes to keep the tears back. One escaped anyway, trailing down his cheek.

"Shit!" Victor grabbed the phone, barking out orders to his team. "Dean, I've got to get things ready. You and Castiel sit tight a minute." He strode out of the office, yelling more orders as he went.

Both men sat silently as Dean struggled to regain his self-control. Dean finally looked at Castiel and asked gruffly, "Was he okay?"

The psychic nodded. "Yes. He's cold and hungry, but so far he is unharmed." His face was grave. "He's very afraid. Zachariah has made...threats. Against both of you. He's clearly hoping to lure you in and take you. You are the one he wants. Sam is...a means to an end."

"The whole 'Vessel' thing? Do you know what he means by it?" Dean's hands were clenched, and Castiel laid his hand of top of them. His hand was warm on Dean's cold ones, and the warmth spread up Dean's arms, helping him relax slightly.

"Not yet. If we can lay hands on him, I could see what he sees and tell you. For now, I only know what you and Sam know. You are a vessel of some kind, and Sam is connected to Lucifer, in his mind. The Morningstar and the Dark Prince are names for Lucifer." He shook his head. "I do fear Zachariah's delusions and what it could mean for Sam, but I have confidence now that Victor and his squad will find him before that danger falls."

A clatter of falling debris marked Zachariah's return. Sam started out of the uneasy sleep he'd fallen into, looking around the basement anxiously.

"Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty. Are we all rested up for the big day?" Zachariah laughed, a hearty sound that chilled Sam. It sounded so...sane, but there was a knife-edge of hysteria underneath it. "I'm sure Dean is in hot pursuit of you, and as soon as I catch him, we'll move on to the next stage. Unfortunately for you, Sammy boy, that's the end of the line. But for Dean, it will be a new beginning as he ascends to a higher level of being!" He sighed rapturously. "Oh happy day! That I should not only live to see this, but be an instrument to bring it about! Thank you, Lord!" He fell on his knees, eyes closed, lips moving silently in prayer.

Sam's mind whirled; he was terrified of what Zachariah might do next, but part of him was clinging to the hope that Castiel would help Dean and the police to find him. Either way, he tried to prepare himself for a fight. He didn't like fighting, but a childhood spent in foster homes and always being the new student in school meant he'd learned how to defend himself. He'd grown from a chubby toddler to a coltish youth, and now he was a big man--tall, well-muscled from work and gym, and he would give it everything he had to stay alive.

To get back to Dean.

He clenched his fists and breathed slow and deep, as Zachariah mumbled his words of worship and ecstasy.

_They're coming. I know they are. I believe they are._

_I'm not giving up._

Zachariah opened his eyes.

Pam and Charlie burst into the squad room, waving a printout as they called for Victor.

"We found it! We found it! It's an old sandwich shop, been abandoned--"

"Yes, we know." Victor raised a hand to quiet them. "We just found it too. The old Cappy's Sandwich Shop, two blocks from the park, the other side from the coffee shop." He indicated half a dozen men standing ready. "We're just about to go there."

Charlie began to speak, but again Victor hushed her. "I appreciate your work here. In fact, you would have beaten us to the punch were it not for the clues Castiel was able to furnish. But now we have to go get Sam, and we can't do that and keep you safe. You two must stay here."

Dean stepped up and said in a growl, "I'm going. And you can't stop me, Victor. If I don't go with you, I'll follow you. I _have_ to go." His anger turned to pleading. "Please, Victor. I can't stay here."

Victor pulled him to the side. "Okay. I'm breaking about fifty rules here, but I understand," he said in a low voice. "You have to stay back though--we know Zachariah wants you. It's that or you don't go. Do you understand?"

Dean nodded his assent, mentally crossing his fingers. If Sam was in danger, he'd do what he had to do. Fuck anything else.

The team left the station in one car and one van, no lights or sirens. Dean watched the few blocks pass by, marveling at how the world was going along like nothing was happening. People walked around, waited for the bus, entered and left stores. He wanted to scream at them, pound on the windows and yell, tell them that this was the most important hour of his life. Of Sam's life. And they didn't know. Didn't care.

His gut cramped, and he could feel tension crawling up the back of his neck. The van swayed as it took a corner, throwing him against Victor. Victor turned and clasped his bicep, squeezing it in silent reassurance. Dean swallowed hard and nodded. He had to trust them, that they knew their job and they would rescue Sam.

Not pull his body out from the same goddamn basement their mother had died in.

Zachariah moved toward Sam, a beatific smile on his face. "Come now, we need to prepare for the arrival of your new owner. The Morningstar will come to take possession of you, and the struggle between him and Michael will begin. The Earth will be destroyed and then reborn into the Paradise our Father meant it to be." His lips drew away to show his teeth in an alarming smile, like a hyena.

Sam stood up, sliding along the wall away from Zachariah. He didn't have far to go though; the piles of old crates and metal shelving impeded his path. The only way out was past Zachariah himself, and Sam hoped to wait until the last possible moment before engaging with him. With more bravado than he felt, he said, "You know the police are probably on their way right now. They'll catch you and throw you back in the sanitarium. Or prison, this time. You might still get away if you start running now."

"No, silly boy, I can't do that," said Zachariah calmly, like he was explaining something to a small child. "I've been led here, brought to this place at this time to serve the Lord, and serve Him I shall."

Sam's heart pounded as he prepared to defend himself. He slid over another six inches, his hands clutching at the concrete. There was a pile of junk directly to his side now, and he flicked his eyes at it, hoping to see a potential weapon. In the tangle of wire and metal, there was a piece of pipe--not iron, unfortunately, but aluminum was better than nothing. Sam wrapped his fingers around it, trying not to draw attention to what he was doing.

"What will you do when Lucifer and Michael don't arrive? When you realize they're just fantasies in your head?" Sam asked, kicking himself right away for challenging the madman's reality. He certainly didn't want to antagonize Zachariah. _Stay cool, Sam. Play it out as long as you can,_ he told himself. He tightened his grip on the pipe while attempting to appear cowed.

"They _will_ arrive, you maggot! They will arrive in a burst of light and glory, and you will bow down before them! Even to the Dark One, as he towers above you in all his horrible beauty! He will burn you out from the inside, immolate your rancid humanity and sin, and replace it with angelic grace! Then they will scorch the Earth in their battle, a battle that Michael must win, will ultimately win! Lucifer will be imprisoned again--you will be locked in the Cage with him for eternity, and the earth will be returned to the angels." He caught his breath, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I will be rewarded--I will join the Host to sit at Michael's feet--I, his most loyal servant!"

Sam was frozen during Zachariah's diatribe, transfixed by the man's frenzy. When Zachariah stopped speaking to catch his breath, Sam struck. Leaping forward, he swung the pipe at Zachariah's face, smacking him squarely on his ear. Zachariah howled and stepped back, clutching his ear, giving Sam room to move forward and strike him again. Zachariah was ready this time, however, throwing his arm up and deflecting the blow. Catching the force of the swing on his forearm made him grunt with pain, but now he fought back, aiming a hook punch at the side of Sam's head. He caught Sam on the cheekbone, knuckles slamming into the still-painful bones of Sam's face. Sam screamed and fell back, one hand flying to his face but the other still hanging onto the pipe. Zachariah leapt forward, pushing Sam against the wall and sinking a solid punch into Sam's belly.

Sam wanted to throw up from that punch, it hurt so badly. He doubled over, trying not to retch, but then thrust himself forward, driving his head into Zachariah's stomach. Zachariah was soft in his middle and his belly gave way under the impact of Sam's skull, pushing air from him and leaving him gasping. He staggered back a couple of steps, and Sam rushed him again, dropping the pipe to deliver a one-two punch to Zachariah's belly and chin. Zachariah fell back again, still struggling for air, his arms flailing. Sam struck with his palm now, aiming straight for Zachariah's nose. He hit it squarely, and blood streamed down Zachariah's face, dripping from his chin onto his shirt. The feel of Zachariah's nose crunching under his hand made Sam feel sick, and his head was reeling from the cheekbone blow, but he knew he was fighting for his life now and he couldn't stop.

A sound caught his ear, but he didn't dare let his attention waver, much less draw Zachariah's attention to it. He hoped desperately that it was the police. He yelled at Zachariah, hoping to cover the noise and draw help closer, if in fact it was help. "You're crazy! There's no angel war coming! I don't belong to Lucifer, I'm me! Sam Winchester!"

Zachariah roared and threw himself at Sam. He wasn't as muscular as Sam, but he was a big man, and his weight was enough to pin Sam to the wall. Zachariah kept yelling incoherently as he rained blows on Sam; half of them were too random to hurt, but enough of them contacted forcefully that Sam was breathless trying to block them. He got clipped in the ear, making his head ring, and then a knee nailed him in the groin. The pain from his abused balls made him nauseous again, and he groaned as he slumped over. He tried to hit Zachariah with the pipe again, but the thin metal bent, and the man was too close for Sam to swing at him.

He couldn't hear any more noise outside of their fight; it must have been a rat or something before, and the last of his hope started draining out of him. He sank to the floor, no longer able to do anything but block the worst of Zachariah's blows; wrapping his arms around his head and twisting to get away from the body blows that hailed down on him. Zachariah panted as he continued to beat Sam, uttering curses and prayers alike in harsh breaths.

The world started to gray out; Zachariah's voice and hands felt like they were drifting away as Sam fell into cotton, his mind sinking and sinking and sinking into darkness.

Dean wanted to tear his way into the empty building; he wanted to rip the doors off, crash through the bricks, and find his Sammy. _Now._

Instead, he had to wait on the sidelines, watching as the police geared up with Kevlar vests, checking their guns and earpieces. A pre-selected group of three cops carefully pried open the door and silently filed into the building. Dean started to follow them, but Victor pulled him back. "You are not going in there, mister."

In a quiet but forceful voice, Dean replied, "You can't stop me, Victor. I will stay behind and let the police do their job, but I _am_ going in."

Victor released him, telling him tersely, "You get hurt, it's on your own head, Winchester. I'll swear I didn't know you came in after us."

Dean nodded. "Deal."

They entered the building, following the trio who were already inside. They fanned out, checking rooms quietly, indicating 'clear' via hand signals. Anxiety was choking Dean; his throat felt like it was closing up, and his gut was a knot. He carefully walked over to the other side of the building, looking for any other ways in or out. As he walked along the wall, he saw a door that was flush; it looked like part of the wall except for a thin line outlining it.

He couldn't yell or make noise, so he turned and flashed his pocket maglight to catch Victor's attention. Victor looked over and Dean pointed to the door, waving him over. Victor held up one hand to tell Dean to wait, but Dean pretended he didn't see it and opened the door.

It opened to a stairway, one full of dust and grime...except for the footprints on the stairs leading down. Excitement surged inside Dean--this had to be it! He fought back the impulse to run down yelling for Sam; God knows he didn't want to increase the danger his brother was in. He reined himself in and carefully placed one foot on a step at a time, easing his weight down to avoid unexpected creaks or squeaks of the boards.

As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he heard a noise deeper in the basement, breaking the quiet. It startled him, and he slipped on the last step, thunking onto the floor. _Shit,_ he thought, freezing in place. Victor was halfway down the stairs now, and Dean looked behind him to see the policeman frozen as well, except for the frown he was directing at Dean.

Turning back to the path of footprints on the dirty floor, Dean eased his way across the basement. A few more steps and he heard his brother's voice yelling, "You're crazy! There's no angel war coming! I don't belong to Lucifer, I'm me! Sam Winchester!"

 _Sam! Alive!_ Dean wanted to run to him, but instead increased his pace only a little, not wanting to give away his arrival. Victor was right behind him now, matching Dean step for step. He tapped Dean on the shoulder, and when he looked around, Victor gave him a thumb's up and nodded. Dean nodded back, and together they tiptoed toward the back of the basement, where the yell had echoed from.

They approached a half-open door, and there was a lot of noise from inside now. A fight was clearly going on; Dean could hear grunts and blows, then what sounded like a body falling. That last sound broke his control and he dashed inside, Victor hot on his heels.

Bursting into the room, Dean didn't see Sam at first--he only saw Zachariah over by a side wall, hands rising and falling as he panted. Then Dean saw Sam, curled up on the floor and trying to fend off the blows Zachariah was pummeling him with

Dean roared and hurled himself at Zachariah. Taken unawares, Zachariah fell back, driven against the nearest junk pile by the momentum of Dean's fury. As soon as he'd gotten Zachariah away from Sam, Dean turned to his brother and left Zachariah to Victor, now assisted by the three-man squad who'd caught up with them. They quickly subdued the raging man, cuffing him and removing him briskly.

Dean knelt by Sam, urgently but tenderly calling his name. Between Sam's fetal position and the spattered blood on his body, Dean couldn't tell if he was in fact all right or not. "Sam! _Sam!_ Please talk to me, buddy...Sam?" Dean ran his hands gently over Sam's head and torso, checking for breaks or larger wounds. He didn't feel anything, but Sam wasn't responding to him.

"Need a bus," Victor said into his radio. He gave the address, then gave Dean a little push to one side. Dean didn't want to move, but he knew Victor had more training in first response care than he did, so he stepped a couple of paces away to allow Victor room. Victor knelt in front of Sam and carefully tugged his arms down. "Sam, it's Victor. Zachariah is gone, my men took him away. You're safe, Sam. It's over. Dean is here." He kept repeating these short sentences as he ran his hands down Sam's limbs and over his head, careful not to move him until the paramedics arrived.

Victor said in a low voice, "I don't feel any breaks, but we can't rule out internal injuries, with a beating like that. The ambulance is on the way--he needs to get a thorough examination at the hospital. Plus the trauma..." Dean's throat closed for a moment and he couldn't speak, so he just nodded.

Sam looked up, his eyes focusing on the men in front of him. "Dean?" He reached out a hand and Dean grabbed it, squeezing it until Sam whimpered.

"Sorry, sorry...I was so worried, Sam, we were looking and looking for you," Dean said thickly. "We weren't going to stop until we found you."

"Castiel..." said Sam hoarsely. "Castiel came...I told him..." He coughed.

"Shhh, don't talk right now. Paramedics will be here in a minute, check you out, okay?" Sam nodded, leaning against the wall now, his head tilted back.

"Castiel? Did you really see him? Talk to him?" asked Victor.

"Yeah. I was sleeping...thought he was a dream...but he was real. Told him...about the signs..." Sam's voice was rough, and Dean pulled out a water bottle, tipping a little water into his brother's mouth. Sam swallowed and gave a half-smile of gratitude. "Did it...help?"

Victor said gruffly, "Damn right it did! We didn't have a lead there until he talked to you." He snorted. "I'll never doubt him again. Doesn't mean I'll believe all the so-called psychics, but Castiel? He's the real fuckin' deal."

Sam nodded, his eyes closing. Dean felt a stab of fear, but then the paramedics were winding their way through the junk piles with a stretcher. He moved aside so they could address his brother, but hovered anxiously, watching as they took Sam's vitals, hooked a saline IV into him, strapped him into the stretcher and began hefting him out of the basement. He followed them to the ambulance, asking one of the medics if he could ride along to the hospital. "I'm his brother...please?"

"Yeah, hop in," said the medic, a slight man with curly brown hair and big, soulful blue eyes. He hopped up and reached his hand out to Dean.

Dean hopped into the ambulance, scrunching into the tiny seat at the foot of the gurney. He glanced at the medic's nametag and said "Thanks, Chuck." Chuck clapped him on the shoulder and told him to hang on. The siren started, and the ambulance took off.

Sam's eyes stayed closed the entire ride, only opening again when the ambulance arrived at the hospital. As they unloaded the gurney, he looked around with confusion, asking for Dean. "Right here, man, right here," he hastened to reassure his brother. "We're at the hospital. Gonna get you all checked out, okay? You're gonna be fine, dude, just fine."

The medics indicated Dean should wait while they took Sam into the triage room. "They're just going to examine him, make sure they catch everything that needs treatment," said Chuck. "They'll get right back to you. Don't worry. He's going to be fine, I just know it." Dean looked into Chuck's blue eyes, shining with sincerity and compassion, and for the first time since Sam had been kidnapped, felt that everything was really going to be all right.

Sam ended up staying overnight at the hospital, despite his clamoring to go home. His broken nose was reset, and they took care of his bruises and cuts. Nothing else had been broken, and there was no internal bleeding or injuries, for which both men were grateful. He was sore and stiff, hungry and dehydrated, but after a night of rehydrating, light but frequent meals, and general observation, he was free to go home the next day, much to his relief.

They no sooner got back to the apartment when Dean began fussing over him like a mother hen--offering snacks, stuffing pillows behind his back--until Sam yelled at him to knock it off. They stared at each other in shock. Sam stammered an apology; he knew Dean was expressing how terribly worried he'd been. He couldn't imagine how he'd feel if the situations had been reversed. Reaching out to Dean, he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Please, just come sit with me."

Dean sat down a foot away. Sam shook his head. "Here, right here. Please, Dean, I need...I need to know we're okay. That you're not angry at me for letting that happen." His voice quavered. "Are you mad?"

Dean moved next to Sam and Sam finally felt safe and warm as Dean wrapped his arms around him. "Of course not, baby boy. How could I be mad? He was crazy, and you just fit into his delusions. Never mad, just so worried. And now so glad you're safe. Glad you're back here with me."

They sat that way for a while, holding each other, Sam reveling in the feel of Dean's strong arms around him. Finally Dean spoke. "Your doctor and Victor--both of them talked to me and said that you should see a counselor. A therapist. There's going to be some...emotional fall-out from this, and they said talking to someone would help."

Sam nodded. "The doctor mentioned it to me too. Gave me a card. I guess...it makes sense." He tried to laugh, but only a croak came out. "I kind of want to just forget it happened, but that's probably too much to ask." He nuzzled into Dean's neck, breathing in the warm scent of his brother. "Just want to stay here forever."

"Me too. But I know you, and there's two problems with that."

Sam pulled back a little, looking at Dean questioningly. "Two?"

Dean nodded. "One, you have that big brain, and it's going to chew this over for a long time. I think a therapist will help with that."

Sam snuggled back into Dean. "Yeah...you're probably right. I'll concede that. What's the second problem?"

Dean chuckled softly. "Your gigantor appetite, you Sasquatch!" He laughed as Sam pinched him. "Ow! It's true! You eat like a--" And then they were kissing. _Finally,_ Sam thought. Dean was right, a therapist was a good idea, but the best curative would be just him, Dean, strong and beautiful and perfect for Sam. Right here in Sam's arms, kissing him and loving him and always being by his side.


	12. And Light Remaining after Thunder - Epilogue

Jody Mills was the therapist, a lively, kind woman who could mother, lecture, counsel, and listen, all with equal skill. She helped Sam deal with what had happened to him, and then became friends with the Winchesters when he concluded his therapy. Dean appreciated her forthrightness and humor, and she in turn his steadfast support and love for his brother.

Zachariah was summarily dispatched back to the Blue Earth Sanitarium, having been deemed incompetent to stand trial. This time, he would not be released.

Hallowed Grounds was closed for a week. Dean re-opened then only because Sam ordered him to, telling him he needed to get back to business and get baking. Once again, their apartment filled with the delicious smells of cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee. Sam did not return to work for another week, but then felt he'd recovered enough to claim his life back.

Charlie and Pam had a party for them; the actual reason for the party was Hallowed Grounds' reopening, but really it was just an "everyone's alive and okay" party, which was a sentiment that Dean could wholeheartedly espouse. Beer flowed, food covered every possible surface, and the hilarity went on until the wee hours. At one point, they noticed Kevin was missing, but Dean found him passed out under Pam's bed.

Sam and Dean wobbled home, trying to be quiet on the street and failing miserably as they laughed and giggled at each other's loopy walking. Falling through the door of their apartment after negotiating the tricky stairs, they kissed and pulled at each other's clothes, only to find they were too inebriated to follow through. "Just wait until tomorrow," Dean promised Sam. "I'm going to fuck you silly."

"You're silly," Sam retorted, which cracked them both up. Then they passed out.

In the morning, Dean did fuck Sam silly. Then Sam fucked him back.

A few weeks later, Sam came to Dean with an idea.

"I want to buy the building."

Dean looked at him in confusion. "What building?"

Sam looked at him intently. " _The_ building."

Dean was shocked. "Why on earth do you want to buy that building? It's been nothing but horror for us!"

"I know. That's why I want to do it. I want to buy it and tear it all down. Erase all the terrible shit. And then--" He cleared his throat. "I want to build something new. Something good. Something that takes the bad and turns it around."

Dean sat down, surprised at the idea but impressed with Sam's thought. "Wow, Sammy. You've been thinking about this for a while?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I just wanted to figure it out in my head for a bit before I brought it up with you."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. It wasn't a bad idea. The building had been empty a long time, and God knew it had terrible memories for both of them. "What did you want to build there?"

Sam looked out the window. "You know all the foster homes we went through? Some were not too bad, but some of them really sucked. And it would have been so good to have someplace to go. To get some help, or just have a break from it." He looked back at Dean. "I'd like to build a place for teenagers who need help. A center where they can talk to someone, or find a doctor, or a job."

Dean was stunned. it was an amazing idea, and he stared at Sam in awe. "That is a fucking fantastic idea." He thought it over while Sam watched him. "The only thing is, we can't run a place like that. And where's the money going to come from? We're doing well, and we can help, but we can't support it by ourselves."

Sam smiled, clearly looking pleased with himself. "Jody can run it. And I did a lot of legal writing in school, so I can write grant proposals and funding requests."

Dean got up and hugged Sam. "You are fucking awesome."

Sam just hugged back. He didn't think he could talk without crying, he felt so grateful for his brother's love and support.

They bought the building for a song. Somehow the kidnapping and the discovery of an old murder had rendered it less than desirable. The old building was completely razed to the bare earth.

Late one night, the Winchesters stood on that bare ground. Dean had a small bag of kindling and wood, and Sam held matches in one hand and a salt canister in the other.

"Tell me again what we're doing with this stuff?" asked Dean. "It's fucking cold."

"It's supposed to be an old purification rite. Fire and salt, to protect against spirits and ghosts. Also to purify the earth." He looked around the lot. "If there was a place that needed some purifying and ghost protection, I'd pick here."

Dean nodded. "You got a point, Sammy." He dumped out his bag of wood and started laying a small fire. "Let's do it."

He built and lit the fire while Sam scattered salt across the ground. He brought the last of the salt and poured it right into the fire, making it spark and hiss. They stood next to each other, arms brushing, as they watched the fire consume itself and finally die down. Sam poured a water bottle over it, causing a great billow of steam and smoke; then Dean kicked dirt over the wet ashes.

They watched a little while longer, just to make sure it was out, before returning to the apartment. Once there, they took their time undressing each other, kissing each bit of skin as it appeared, murmuring words or devotion and protection. They made slow, reverent love; there was no hurry, no rush. Passion ran deep inside them, but they could take their time.

They drifted to sleep with Dean curled around Sam, his arm around Sam's waist, Sam's back pressed against Dean's chest.

 

Fin


End file.
